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THE INFAMOUS 
JOHN FRIEND 


BY 

MRS. R. S. GARNETT 



NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
1909 


T'Z- ^ -r 


Copyright, 1909, 

BY 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
Published^ July^ jgog 


• * 
» « * 

* »* 


THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS 



CONTENTS 


CHAP. PAGE 


I. 

John Friend at Home 

• 


• 

• 


I 

IL 

At Brighton 






13 

III. 

How They Went to the Review 





22 

IV. 

Love at First Sight 






33 

V. 

A Chapter of Low Life 






45 

VI. 

A Chapter of High Life 






57 

VII. 

An Awakening 






66 

VIIL 

Rival Wooings 






74 

IX. 

The Return to Town 






86 

X. 

Young Love Triumphant 






100 

XL 

A Lovers’ Meeting 






113 

XII. 

Susan’s Discovery 






122 

XIII. 

The Wife’s Struggle 






133 

XIV. 

The Weakness of William North 




144 

XV. 

The Betrayed Messenger 






157 

XVL 

Fisticuffs .... 






168 

XVIL 

The Smugglers’ Revenge 






180 

XVIIL 

An Interview with Pitt 






191 

XIX. 

The Fight on Aldington Knoll 





201 

XX. 

The Indignation of M. Sauvignac 




210 

XXL 

The Earths are Stopped 

. 





222 


IV 


CONTENTS 


CHAP. 

XXIL 

At Boulogne .... 




PAGE 

XXIIL 

A Marriage in Haste 




. 240 

XXIV. 

Susan is Restored to Her Family 



. 250 

XXV. 

The Trial — the First Day 




. 263 

XXVI. 

The Trial — the Second Day 




. 277 

XXVIL 

Youth and Experience 




. 290 

XXVIII. 

In the Morning 




. 306 

XXIX. 

The Natural Man 




. 310 

XXX. 

The Wife’s Victory 




. 319 

XXXL 

The Birth of a Soul 




. 330 

XXXIL 

The End ..... 




. 340 


THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

CHAPTER I 

JOHN FRIEND AT HOME 

Mary Friend lay ill in bed. The physician had just 
taken leave, shaking his head and pronouncing her in 
very serious danger. Her husband sat by her side, 
watching every rise and fall of her breath. She seemed 
to be asleep ; but after a while she opened her eyes and 
fixed them on her husband. 

You were not here just now, love? she asked. 

'' No, my dear. I went down with Dr. Thompson for 
a minute. He thinks you are going on famously. You 
are much better to-day, he says.^' 

Stay with me, dear. Don’t leave me again.” 

''No, my love. Not another minute.” He sat down 
in a chair facing her. "Where are your hands, Polly? 
Let me hold them.” 

He sought and found them under the bed-clothes; — 
slender wasted hands that lay in his, hot and trembling 
and powerless like little unfledged birds taken from the 
nest. His great muscular fingers folded tenderly over 
each. " There now, you have got me prisoner, eh Polly ? 
Satisfied I can’t escape for you again, are you ? ” 

She smiled faintly and was silent. By-and-by she said, 
" Dearest, I think Dr. Thompson is wrong.” 

"How, Polly?” 


2 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

In thinking me better. I am very weak, my love. 
Sinking away. I believe — I believe the time has come 
when I must leave you.’’ 

'' Not a bit of it, Polly; don’t you believe it,” said her 
husband with cheerful decision. '' It’s only your weak- 
ness which makes you feel as if you were sinking. 
You’re all right; Dr. Thompson said so. Why, my little 
woman, do you think I’m going to let you die?” 

You can’t help it, love,” she murmured. Say good- 
bye to me, dearest. You know I would have stayed with 
you if I could.” 

'' Of course you’ll stay, Polly. I’m not going to let 
you go. I’ve strength enough for two, and cunning 
greater than physicians’ to cheat death when It’s you he 
wants, my little woman. I’m not going to let you die. 
Don’t you think it.” 

'' Say good-bye to me, dearest love,” she repeated, en- 
treatingly. 'H have loved you so dearly. You’ll not 
forget me? You will still think of me when I am not 
with you?” 

‘‘ Be quiet, Polly. You are not going to leave me, you 
little fool ! As for forgetting you. I’m not the sort to 
change, am I? The world has never held any other 
woman than you for me, Polly, and neved will to my 
life’s end. Forget you! I shan’t have the chance, my 
dear. I’m not going to part with you; that’s the long 
and short of it.” 

'' It is not in your hands, dearest. Let me speak ; I 
have so much to say.” 

‘‘ Well, say what you like^ little woman. But it won’t 
make any difference, you know, to your getting better. 
Why, you’re stronger already, or you couldn’t talk so 
much.” 

“ I have tried, dearest, to be a good wife to you.” 

And you’ve succeeded, Polly. You don’t need me 
to tell you that?” 


JOHN FRIEND AT HOME 3 

I Have not done what I would. I ought to have 
been better.” 

Nonsense, Polly ! I can’t stand your accusing your- 
self. As if you weren’t a whole universe too good for 
me ! ” 

'' But dearest — if we are to meet again ” 

‘‘Yes, Polly?” 

“ Let me hope that, my love ! When I am no longer 
here ” 

“ I suppose you must have your say out, but you are 
not going.” 

“ You will live in hope of seeing me again, love? You 
will be good ? ” 

“ You’d better stay and look after me yourself, Polly.” 

“ I can do nothing. I have done nothing. Perhaps 
over there I can do more.” 

“ Oh, no ; don’t you think it, love. I don’t want a dead 
wife to think about; it’s only a living one that will do 
me any good. Do you think I’m not the better for 
having you, my sweet ? Why, every time I look at you, 
you put gentle thoughts into my head. I should be a 
sadly rough customer without you, my Polly. Don’t 
you fret; but remember that it’s you alive I want; that 
it’s only living you can help me. Make up your mind to 
live for my sake if you want to reform me, dearest life. 
And now you’ve talked quite enough. Take your physic, 
and then you must go to sleep. Here it is. That’s right ! 
Now I’ll hold your hands again; and you must remember 
I have you safe and don’t mean to let you slip through 
my fingers. Trust me, Polly; I can hold you.” 

She smiled, and sighed; and then smiled again in 
answer to the tender concern of his face. She did not 
yet believe in his power to keep her, but she was too 
weak to protest; it was easier to surrender herself to 
him and repose on his strength. The same thing, or a 
variant of it^ had happened many times before. The 


4 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

history of her married life had been of a continuous 
struggle to bring her husband’s mind into harmony with 
hers. Repeated failures had not taught her that it was 
a hopeless task. Beaten on one point, she took up a 
fresh position, always to be repulsed by his indulgent 
indifference. Yet his very insensibility had something 
in it to charm her, a sort of animal calm and strength that 
were soothing to her highly-strung temperament. It 
seemed to her that he grew the more lovable the more 
she disapproved. She hugged the thought that it was 
her duty to love him ; to win him by obeying and pleasing. 
Her hope was that her prayers and the silent influence 
of her example might at last effect what her words 
could not do. Perhaps her death might awaken him ; and 
in that thought she was glad to die. She was a woman 
whose whole life lay in the spiritual world; passionately 
moral, fervently religious. And through the curious 
attraction which contrasted temperaments often have 
for each other, her husband loved her the more for her 
unlikeness to himself. 

He was a man of forty-seven, standing about five feet 
nine, built like a bullock for breadth and strength, so as 
to give the impression of being less than his height. For 
all his massiveness of frame he yet had an appearance 
of great activity ; and a martial suggestion in his carriage, 
an indefinable hint in his countenance, inspired the 
thought '' A most formidable antagonist.” It could 
hardly be his expression that conveyed this veiled threat, 
for it was one mainly of humorous intelligence, yet 
showing resolution and command. Some people have 
an odd resemblance to certain animals ; and though there 
was nothing vulpine about Friend’s bullet head, square 
jaw and massive brow, yet a look of sly cheerful cunning, 
and something latent that might prove to be ferocity, 
reminded one on seeing him in no small degree of a fox. 

Friend’s prediction was verified on the physician’s 


5 


JOHN FRIEND AT HOME 

visit the next morning; he found the patient keeping up 
her strength well, and more comfortable. She had passed 
a peaceful night. He congratulated her husband as they 
exchanged a few words downstairs before he left. Ah, 
if all my patients were as well tended as Mrs. Friend is, 
I should get the credit for more cures than I do,’' he said. 

You are a wonderful nurse, Mr. Friend.” 

Dr. Thompson laughed good-humoredly. ‘‘ Adieu sir ; 
I must hurry away. I shall be here again to-night, when 
I trust this happy improvement may continue. Your 
servant, sir.” 

Friend let him out and entered the parlor on the 
right. '' Susan ! ” he said. There was no reply. He 
went round the table until he could command a view 
of the interior of a high-backed armchair which stood 
with its back to the door. A girl sat in it deeply im- 
mersed in a book. 

So, Miss Sukey ! ” he said, you are there, lost in 
your books as usual ? ” 

''Yes, daddy,” she said, laying down her volume and 
rising from her seat, as well-brought-up young people 
a hundred years ago were trained to do when their elders 
addressed them. 

" Is that jelly ready yet for your aunt, my love?” he 
asked. " She might like it for her dinner.” 

" Not quite, Daddy. It has not set yet.” 

" What a long time it takes to set, Sukey. I’m afraid 
the skill of the cook was to seek. Did you drop your 
jelly bag on the floor while you were dreaming over your 
books instead of minding your cookery ? 

" Oh no. Daddy ; I don’t think of books when I’m 
making a jelly.” 

" I’ll wager you do, then. You think of nothing else, 
you lazy slut. Your little head is stuffed with ’em. 
What is it you have there now ? Fairy tales ? ” 

" Fairy tales forsooth ! ” she exclaimed indignantly. 


6 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

‘‘What is this, then? * Evelina, or a Young Lady’s 
Entrance into the World’ And what sort of a work is 
this?’’ 

“ I don’t know what you call it, Daddy. It’s a story ; 
a romance, I suppose ; a novel.” 

“A romance! A novel, indeed! Very novel too for 
your time of life. Why, Sukey, how old do you call 
yourself, child?” 

“ I shall be sixteen next week, Daddy.” 

“ Sixteen next week ! How time does fly, to be sure ! 
So here’s la petite Suzanne filling her head with romances 
and thinking herself grown up already!” 

“Do you think I’m too young, Daddy?” asked Susan 
anxiously. 

“Too young, Sukey? We can’t control our ages, my 
dear ; they come on us unawares. It is a surprise to me, 
for I have seen you, as I thought, such a child still; so 
careless of others, so wrapped up in your own little world 
of toys and dreams. I’d no notion you were thinking 
all this while of Young Ladies’ Entrances into the World. 
I suppose you’ll be thinking about your own entrance to 
the world before long.” 

“ Oh, no. Daddy. I am quite happy as I am with you 
and aunt.” 

“ Are you, my dear ? But for how long, I wonder ? — 
Well, child, look after that jelly. And by-and-by I shall 
want you to go and sit with your aunt. I am going to her 
now ; but I have to go out after dinner. So you must act 
nurse a bit, love. I shan’t be more than an hour gone.” 

He returned to his post. It was not without good cause 
that he quitted it for more than a few minutes, for his 
wife visibly flagged whenever he left her. Susan was of 
no great use in the sick-room. Many girls of her age are 
skilful nurses; but she was hitherto without that com- 
prehension of another’s suffering which, if it be not the 
result of experience, is the sign of a nature at once prac- 


JOHN FRIEND AT HOME 7 

tical and unselfish. Susan was not selfish; she had an 
excellent heart. It was her outward faculties, her atten- 
tion, which were in fault. ( 

She was a waif of the French Revolution. Her family 
had perished in the Terror when she was a child of four. 
But that was twelve long years ago; and Suzanne de 
Marny remembered little or nothing of her French life. 
She was plain Susan Marny now, and passionately 
English in her sympathies with the great national struggle 
which was drawing to its acutest phase. There was still 
something slightly foreign about her, just enough to 
suggest that she had inherited the best gifts of both 
countries. She had been an exquisitely lovely child^ and 
was now growing into an exceedingly pretty girl ; and, 
perhaps owing to her French blood, without any of the 
awkwardness which frequently marks the English girl s 
transition to womanhood. 

Gradually Mrs. Friend recovered strength; but she was 
a delicate woman, and her convalescence was a slow one. 
It was a great occasion when she came downstairs for the 
first time. Her husband was in the highest spirits, and 
made it a veritable triumph. No one could be a more 
entertaining companion than Friend when his spirits 
were raised. He joked and laughed; he imitated for- 
eigners in a way that provoked peals of laughter even 
from his wife. He did a German apostrophising his 
sausage and his beer, and although neither Mrs. Friend 
nor Susan knew the language, they found the tones, 
gestures, and grimaces unmistakable and irresistible; a 
dialogue between two Irishmen concerning a pig; and 
lastly, a scene between a drunken Parisian coachman and 
a stall keeper of the Halles; all delivered with such 
dramatic power and wealth of comic observation as 
would have drawn crowds to hear him on the stage. 
They had at last to beg him to stop in mercy to their 
aching sides. 


8 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

O Daddy ! ’’ cried Susan, almost sobbing with laugh- 
ter. '' Where did you learn all this? You speak French 
exactly like a Frenchman; you make me feel as if I 
were four years old again. When you talk like that, I 
remember the sound so well ! ’’ 

'' Daddy Friend was a great deal in Paris last century, 
you know, my love,” said Mrs. Friend. 

‘‘ I know it was you who brought me over. But you 
were not in Paris all through the Revolution ? ” 

‘‘ I was there some months in 1793. There were a 
good few English people there, even at the worst of it. 
We had to keep ourselves pretty close, but there was a 
pleasant little circle meeting at a few friends’ houses; 
there was Mrs. Christie, and the great Tom Paine, and 
that fine woman Mrs. Wollstonecraft.” 

My love, do not name such people to the child,” 
remonstrated Mrs. Friend. 

'' Oh^ you can’t stand Tom Paine, can you Polly? But 
as for Mary Wollstonecraft, I always had a great admira- 
tion for her. Captain Gilbert Imlay notwithstanding. 
She was a splendid woman, and you’d have said so 
yourself if you had ever seen her, Polly.” 

'' She was not a woman I could ever have met except 
accidentally,” said Mrs. Friend rather primly. Let us 
change the subject, my dear. Tell Susan how you used 
to bring the emigrants over in the time of the Terror.” 

Nay, dear. I’ll tell you instead my plan for the 
future. Here you are down among us once more ; you’ll 
soon be on your feet again now ; and as soon as you can 
bear the journey we’ll take you down to Brighthelmstone 
to complete your recovery. Hey, Polly? What do you 
think of a little sea-bathing to set you up? And we’ll 
show Susan a little of the gay world, eh ? ” 

Oh ! ” cried Susan in rapture. '' To see the sea ! 
Do you really mean it. Daddy ? ” 

Mrs. Friend did not seem equally delighted. She only 


JOHN FRIEND AT HOME 9 

said, Brighthelmstone ? It’s a long journey, isn’t it, 
my love?” 

Why, no length at all ; not more than an active man 
can walk in a day. It’s only fifty miles. The coach 
would take you there in ten or twelve hours; but you 
shan’t go by coach, Polly. You shall have your own 
carriage^ and go down in proper style like a lady — sleep 
on the road if you like, and arrive without the least 
fatigue.” 

‘‘My own carriage, dear! You are not thinking of 
setting up a carriage ? ” 

“ You shall have a carriage, Polly, confound me if you 
shan’t; and Sukey here shall have as many new gowns 
as she has a mind for, and I’ll see you two ruffling it with 
the best society in Brighthelmstone. So now you know 
your fate, madam I ” 

“You are not serious, my love, surely?” 

“ As sure as my name’s John Friend I am, Polly. 
Come, you will like to go ? Sukey, you will like to see a 
little of the gay world at Brighthelmstone?” 

“ O Daddy, Daddy. I should delight in it I ” cried 
Susan ecstatically. 

“That’s settled then,” said Friend; and his wife for 
the moment submitted. 

But on being alone with her husband the next day she 
reopened the subject. “ Surely, my love, you were joking 
when you spoke of taking us to Brighthelmstone ? ” 

“Joking? Never less so in my life!” 

“ But, my dear, have you considered it well ? Perhaps 
there might be no objection to the mere vi^it; but to go 
in such a style — to buy a carriage for the occasion — — ” 

“Well, Polly, why not? Many a common drudge of 
a city merchant keeps his carriage; why should not we?” 

“ If your fortune allows it ” 

“ It does allow it, Polly ; that and far more.” 

“ It must be for you to decide, my love, not me. You 


lo THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

know best what you can afford. But you will recollect 
it is not the first time you have launched into extrav- 
agances that we have not been able to support/^ 

Friend laughed, not quite pleasantly. 

Well, Polly, if that’s to be the case again, then let’s 
be merry while we may,” he said. But the luck will 
last this time, my dear; have no fear of that.” 

Dearest,” said Mrs. Friend, her eyes filling with tears, 
if you knew how painful all this display and extrav- 
agance is to me— this feeling of insecurity, not knowing 
where the money comes from, nor how long it will last — 
and then to go into society not knowing on what footing 
we stand nor by what right we mix with our associates — 

if you knew how — how miserable it makes me ” 

She could not command her voice to finish her sentence ; 
and was silent, struggling with her tears. 

‘‘ Nonsense, Polly,” said Friend peremptorily. Don’t 
raise imaginary objections to my wishes. You have the 
right of any other woman of good family and breeding 
to mix with her equals in fortune and position. Don’t 
talk nonsense^ my love ; your illness has lowered you till 
you are scared at less than a shadow. There, give me a 
kiss and cheer up, little woman; you must not be so 
diffident and distrustful. Cheer up and smile again; 
you know I would not hurt you for the world.” 

She wiped her eyes and tried to obey him; but there 
was another objection in her mind, which when her voice 
was better under control, she brought forward. 

'' And there’s another point, dearest,” she said. 
Don’t be angry with me ; but have you thought of your 
plan with reference to Susan ? She is beginning to grow 
up now, and is becoming a very pretty girl. Will it be 
wise to introduce her to society at Brighthelmstone, so 
young as she is, with the Prince of Wales there and all 
his dissolute companions ? ” 

‘‘ But you will be with her, love.” 


JOHN FRIEND AT HOME ii 

And you. Oh, it’s not that I anticipate any harm 
from want of protection; but supposing she falls in 
love ? ” 

What, as soon as she sets her eyes on a young fellow ? 
Polly, is that your opinion of your sex ? ” 

Not perhaps at the first moment, but certainly sooner 
or later. You have made plans for her future, I suppose. 
Will it suit them for her to marry so soon? Or is it 
perhaps your plan to marry her to some one now at 
Brighthelmstone ? ” She seemed struck with a sudden 
idea; her face blanched. ‘‘Friend! If you are going 

to make that child an Instrument ” 

“ No, no, Polly! ” he said reassuringly. “ Don’t think 
of it. Her happiness would always be my first considera- 
tion. Can’t you trust me as far as that, my love ? ” 

She sank down again and covered her face with her 
hands. “ Forgive me, love,” she said. “ I ought to 
trust you; but trust is hard when one knows so little. 

If you would trust me more ” 

“ Well, dearest, about the child. Should you be sorry 
to see her married?” 

“ It would depend, of course, on the man. I should 
be very jealous for my sweet Susan. I would not part 
with her to any one I did not thoroughly trust. Nor if 
he were found should I wish her to marry yet. She 
is a mere child still, quite unawakened.” 

“ She is beginning to stir, dear love, in her sleep. She 
will soon awake, sooner perhaps than you think. That 
is the reason I want to show her a little of life. She has 
had a quiet time here with you ; now when she is growing 
up we should not be dealing fairly with her if we kept 
her shut up and buried alive all her days.” 

“ But what if she should become discontented with 
out quiet life? Would it not then be a cruelty?” 

“ Nay, Polly, she is a good girl ; she is thine own pupil, 
thine own adopted daughter. She will not long be dis- 


12 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

contented with her home. — Tell me/’ he 3aid, after a 
pause, ‘‘ do you really think she is likely to marry, so 
young as she is?” 

Mrs. Friend pondered. That she is likely to have 
many admirers I am certain,” she replied. ‘‘ But will 
they touch her heart? How can one tell? She is of 
French blood, and may have some harmlessly coquettish 
strain ; I fancy she may have ; and then there is a certain 
safety in numbers. And she is very young still. On 
the whole, my love, I think the ordeal will be harmless.” 

‘‘ I am glad you think so, my dear. Yet, after all, it 
may be best for the child to marry early.” 


CHAPTER II 


AT BRIGHTON 

A HANDSOME chariot was bought; and in it Friend and 
his wife, with Susan and their devoted maid Betty, posted 
down to Brighton. They spent one night at Reigate to 
save fatigue ; and about five in the afternoon of the next 
day rattled over the cobblestones of East Street, through 
Castle Square, and drew up in front of one of the hand- 
somest mansions on the Steine. Men servants threw 
open the door and hurried forward to hand the ladies 
out of the carriage. They entered a spacious hall, richly 
furnished in the barbarous taste of the period, with 
plaster columns painted to imitate marble, and grained 
woodwork, and a vast quantity of gilding. Susan looked 
about her with astonishment. She had seen a good 
many changes of residence and variations of their mode 
of living while under the care of the Friends, but never 
anything like this. Mrs. Friend too seemed surprised. 
Her husband smiled. ‘‘ My friend Lord Mountstephen 
lends me the house,'’ he said ; ‘‘ and the servants are 
hired for our stay here. I must have your property 
attended while in Brighthelmstone, my love.” 

'‘Daddy Friend, you are a magician, I believe!” ex- 
claimed Susan. " Or are you someone in disguise ? Do 
you think he is really some foreign prince, or a noble 
duke or earl, dear aunt?” 

Mrs. Friend smiled. Her husband burst into a roar 
of laughter, and rallied Susan long about her foreign 
prince in disguise. 


13 


14 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

She did not think much of the subject, however. Her 
head was full of her own concerns, which were mainly 
dreams ; and she took the various mysteries of her guar- 
dian’s avocations with perfect calm. She supposed things 
were always so in affairs.” This was the term used by 
Friend whenever it became necessary to speak of his 
employment. But the usual tenor of their life was that 
of the quieter professional classes; and now it appeared 
that they were to launch into fashionable life. Friend 
himself was quite unchanged. He was always the same 
in all surroundings and with all conditions of men. He 
took Susan out for a walk in the morning, eager for her 
first view of the sea. Mrs. Friend was keeping her room 
after the fatigues of the journey. It was a different 
scene indeed from the Brighton of our day. The land- 
scape was all Downs and sea; the little town dominated 
by its square towered church clustered among hayfields 
and cornfields. But rows of houses were beginning to 
spread like extended fingers among the fields, and the 
roads showed signs of traffic beyond the uses of country 
lanes. Over at Hove the white tents of the military 
camp shone in the sun, and glimpses of scarlet and flashes 
of burnished metal occasionally struck the eye. But the 
great glittering plain of the sea absorbed all Susan’s 
attention. She had no eyes for the streets, delightfully 
clean after the filth of London, nor for the sunshine 
glowing on the red brick pavements and working color 
harmonies between them and the dappled grey flint work 
of the walls. The vivid green, the well kept turf of 
the Steine contrasted with the bright rust colored meshes 
of the fishermen’s nets spread over its seaward end to 
dry; picturesque fishing boats were drawn up on the 
shingle of the beach ; children were paddling and digging 
in the sand. A row of bathing machines stood in the 
shallow water, while stalwart females, gowned in faded 
indigo blue serge, were standing waist deep in the sea 


AT BRIGHTON 


15 


and '' dipping ’’ the ladies and children who entrusted 
themselves to their care. Friend told Susan she must 
make the acquaintance of Martha Gunn, the celebrated 
bathing woman of the place. They went in search of 
her. She was engaged, but by-and-by came bustling 
up. Wanted, am I ? And bless the young lady’s pretty 
face, does she want to bathe? And so she shall, the 
pretty dear, and none but old Martha shall have the 
dipping of her, the pretty innocent. It was Lady Betty 
Stanhope that kept me; she’s always so long in the 
water, is Lady Betty; but there, no one’ll do for her 
la’ship but old Martha. They all asks for old Martha, 
sir; and it’s me as’ll dip the sweet lamb here as gently 
as a babe. Come along, my pretty ; come with old 
Martha.” 

She was a stout, cheerful old woman^ with a broad 
beaming face looking out from the frills of her large 
cap underneath a bonnet, with such an open, kindly 
expression that Susan surrendered herself into her hands 
without reluctance. She did not quite perceive the 
necessity for a bathing attendant to take her by the 
shoulders and bob her down into the water, but it was 
at the period the regulation way for ladies to enjoy sea 
bathing; so she resigned herself to undergo it like the 
rest. When it was over, and damp and sticky but ex- 
hilarated she rejoined Friend, she found him somewhat 
annoyed by discovering that the full swing of the season 
would not begin for another month. True, there were 
visitors in plenty; but chiefly family parties and patients 
resorting there for their health. Mrs. Fitzherbert was 
staying at her house to recruit after an indisposition, 
and there was a sprinkling of fashionables fluttering 
around her; but the Pavilion was empty; no entertain- 
ments or concerts were going forward, and Mr. Wade, 
Master of Ceremonies, had not yet arrived. 

‘‘ Never mind, dear Daddy,” said Susan; we shall be 


1 6 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

very happy without balls and concerts; and I dare say 
we shall find plenty of nice acquaintances among these 
people on the beach/' 

But I intend to mind, Sukey. I must at least see if 
the lady I hope will introduce you is in Brighton. Come 
into Donaldson's Library." 

He drew her into that fashionable resort, almost a club- 
room, where the quality met daily for cards and gossip 
as well as for the exchange of books. On consulting the 
visitors' list he found the lady he wanted, Lady Anne 
Craven, was at her house ; and his annoyance passed oif. 
The shop was crowded with knickknacks and trinkets, 
china, lace, painted fans, ribbons, and muslins. Susan 
looked at the pretty things with delight; but what was 
her astonishment when Friend put a banknote for 
twenty pounds into her hand, and told her to spend it on 
making herself smart! She had never possessed a sum 
larger than a guinea in her life, and felt quite em- 
barrassed at so much wealth. She bought a real lace 
veil for herself and a pair of gloves for her aunt, the 
prices of which were discussed with much mystery and 
meaning, whereby Friend told her she was to know the 
articles were smuggled. 

In the afternoon Friend called on Lady Anne Craven, 
who owned a small house next to Mrs. Fitzherbert's on 
the Steine. Lady Anne's sister had married the Comte 
de Nerac, who had emigrated to England early in the 
Revolution, but his wi^e and family, who remained in 
hopes of quieter times, owed their escape to Friend. It 
was he who brought them over in safety to Lady Anne's 
house in town. She professed herself pleased to renew 
his acquaintance; and when she heard where his wife 
and ward were staying, graciously consented to call 
upon them. 

She came the next day, when Friend happened to be 
out. Her manner at first was a little lofty, but she soon 


AT BRIGHTON 


17 


thawed beneath the influence of Mrs. Friend’s ladylike 
manners and Susan’s charm. She was a good-natured 
woman, very fond of young people, and a great admirer 
of beauty; and the standard of Brighton with regard 
to birth was by no means so exacting as that of London. 
She soon learned that Mrs. Friend’s father had bgen 
Dean of Lincoln, and that after his death, which hap- * 
pened early^ she had been brought up by his brother, Mr. 
Henry Norman, who held the position of Clerk to the 
House of Commons. ‘‘ But I quarreled with my family 
when I married Mr. Friend,” she said, ‘‘ and I have 
not seen any of my relations since. My uncle died five 
years ago.” 

But Mr. Friend is of good family himself, I have 
always understood ? ” asked Lady Anne. 

‘‘ I must confess I do not know any particulars about 
his family. His father was, I believe, undoubtedly 
entitled to a large fortune, but he was ruined in a long 
lawsuit about it with another branch — with which, of 
course, we have never had any intercourse. Mr. Friend 
has had to make his own way entirely; and he never 
builds on his birth or family connections.” 

'' But, my dear madam, if he is of good blood he has a 
claim that can’t be withstood. I am pleased at Siny rate 
to find you are so respectably connected. I see you’re 
a family I shall have pleasure in knowing while you’re 
at Brighton; and I hope you’ll let me have the pleasure 
of introducing your charming niece to our society here.” 

‘‘You are very good, your ladyship. If my health 
were stronger I should wish to escort her myself; but 
I fear I am not equal to it.” 

“ I shall be delighted to take her out, ma’am. I love 
young people, especially when they have such good looks 
and pretty manners as Miss here. She does your train- 
ing credit, ma’am.” 

“ It is very good of your ladyship to say so.” 


1 8 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Lady Anne lost no time in asking Friend to bring 
Susan to spend an evening at her house. Though the 
town was not full, there was a good deal of company. 
There was Lady Amelia Spencer, and the E^rl and 
Countess Craven, brother and sister-indaw of Lady 
Anne; there was Mrs. Creevey and her three daughters 
by a former marriage, the Misses Ord — Mr. Creevey as 
a n^ember of Parliament was kept in town; there was 
Captain Berkeley of the Sea Fencibles, and Colonel 
Benson of the militia; there was Lady Anne's cousin, 
Mr. Thomas Raby, M.P., nephew and heir of Lord 
Sandown. ‘‘ Quite of the right principles, Mr. 
Friend," whispered Lady Anne on introducing the last. 
'' Brighton is a horrid Whiggish place, I must confess ; 
but we try to forget politics here. We are all friends 
at Brighton." 

Mr. Raby was a handsome, rather stiff-looking young 
man of about twenty-seven. He begged for the honor 
of an introduction to Susan, round whom the young men 
were clustering like flies round a honey pot. She indeed 
was looking ravishingly pretty. Mr. Raby could not find 
an opportunity of gaining her attention. For some time 
he stood behind the sofa where she sat^ trying unsuccess- 
fully to enter the conversation. At last Friend ap- 
proached him. 

Lady Anne tells me you are a colonel of Volunteers, 
Mr. Raby." 

‘‘ Yes, sir. I think it is every Englishman's duty to do 
all he can for the defense of his country at the present 
crisis of affairs. I have thrown myself into the Volun- 
teer movement with all my strength." 

A most praiseworthy work," said Friend. ‘‘ It in- 
terests me greatly. Is your regiment stationed at Hove, 
may I ask ? " 

'' No, sir, it is at Folkestone. I am not able to do much 
for it during the Session, but I devote all my spare time 


AT BRIGHTON 


19 

to it when the House is not sitting. Our leader Mr. Pitt 
sets us an excellent example."' 

Indeed he does. And what do you think of the 
prospects of an invasion, Mr. Raby ? " 

Why, sir, I believe it depends on ourselves. If we 
show ourselves careless about our defenses, I imagine 
we shall' have Bonaparte down upon us directly. He is 
only waiting for an opportunity.'" 

'' I have heard some who ought to be able to form an 
opinion say that he is too much engrossed in his new 
honors as Emperor and getting himself crowned in Italy 
to think of invasion at present."" 

Only a blind, sir. Nothing will content the voracious 
ambition of that man. Depend upon it, he is as much 
bent on the subjugation of England as ever he was." 

‘'You may be right, sir. In that case it behooves us 
to look to our defenses. What do you think of the 
Martello towers along the southeastern coast ? '" 

Mr. Raby had much to say, and the conversation lasted 
for some time; till, seeing a space for a moment at 
Susan's side, he seized on it and deserted Friend and 
the subject of the Volunteers. 

Friend was amused to see the ease and grace with 
which Susan accepted her new position as a belle of 
fashion. She was simplicity and modesty itself ; no 
touch of affectation or conceit appeared, but neither 
was there the least awkwardness or shyness. Her 
French blood showed itself in her social gifts; no 
English girl brought up as she had been in utter seclusion 
would have been able to bear herself so well. Lady 
Anne was delighted with her. “ Why, she is a pearl, 
a paragon, your little Miss Marny ! " she exclaimed. 
“You must let her be with me often; I must show her 
everywhere. Never fear that I will not take care of 
her. I will guard her well." 

They returned well pleased to Mr$. Friend, Susan 


20 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

overflowing with delight and excitement. She repeated 
to her aunt all the fine things that had been said to her, 
ending always with, “ Could they really have meant it, 
dear aunt?’’ 

Mrs. Friend assured her they did not; but Susan’s 
pleasure could not be spoiled. 

Mr. Raby came very soon to call. He was evidently 
very much struck with Susan, and though he had not a 
great flow of conversation nor a facility in paying com- 
pliments, it seemed to Friend that his admiration had a 
deeper root than that of her more voluble followers. He 
talked the matter over with his wife. “ What do you 
think of young Raby, my love? How should you like 
him for a husband for Susan ? ” 

My dearest life ! I have seen him but once. What 
can I know of him?” 

He seems to me an honest young fellow. He has 
good Tory principles, at any rate; that ought to recom- 
men him to you, Polly.” 

'Hf he holds them conscientiously and intelligently, 
they are a recommendation truly,” said Mrs. Friend; 

but political principles do not go very far towards 
making a woman’s happiness. I think he seems rather 
cold in his temper.” 

‘‘ Perhaps the warmer when his heart is reached. 
Polly. He is nephew and heir to Lord Sandown, and 
will be very wealthy when he succeeds to the title. And 
he has a pretty fortune already from his mother. Lady 
Louisa Dalkeith.” 

My dear, what are rank and money to me ? They 
would only remove my Susan quite out of my reach.” 

'' Don’t you be too sure of that, Polly. Because we 
have lived poorly hitherto, don’t suppose it must always 
be your fate. You might lose Susan more irretrievably 
if you married her to some obscure clergyman .or pro- 
fessional drudge.” 


AT BRIGHTON 


21 


There is always safety in obscurity, dearest.” 

And safety is all you care about. Poor Polly ! ” 
He kissel her hand. '' Never mind, my love. Safety 
and greatness sometimes go together. I own I rather 
incline to see Susan Countess of Sandown.” 

My love, what claim has Susan to so brilliant a 
match? A girl without fortune, without family ” 

What do you know of her family, my dear ? And as 
for fortune, I have put by a few shillings for her,” said 
Friend dryly. 

'' I was thinking of her as our own daughter. You 
are right, my love; I know nothing of her family, no 
more than I do of your true position and employments.” 
She spoke with some bitterness, of which her husband 
took no notice. 

Seriously, Polly, the alliance might be useful to me. 
I have not yet decided on it, and I want your opinion of 
the young man as to whether he is likely to make the 
child happy. Study him and let me know what you 
think of him. I will take no one for her that you do 
not approve of, my love; comfort yourself with that 
assurance.” 

So Mrs. Friend took pains to become acquainted with 
Mr. Raby. 


CHAPTER III 


HOW THEY WENT TO THE REVIEW 

Mr. Raby certainly afforded ground for Friend's ex- 
pectations, by his assiduity in calling, and the attentions 
he paid to Susan. He could hardly take his eyes off her, 
and did his best to converse with her; but the very 
anxiety with which he sought for suitable topics stood 
in his way; and she found him rather stupid. Usually 
Mrs. Friend came to the rescue, and to her he held forth 
at length on the subject of the Volunteers, his veneration 
for Pitt, and the wicked malignancy of the Whigs' attack 
on‘ Lord Melville. Mrs. Friend grew at length to feel 
rather warmly towards him. His admiration for Susan 
and his sincere though awkward attempts to interest 
her touched her heart. He was evidently an earnest 
politician and deeply convinced of his party principles; 
and though not brilliant, he was an honest, painstaking 
worker, of steady character, and not without intelligence. 
She was intensely interested in all he had to say about 
the Volunteer movement and the defense of the coast. 
Whatever principles Mrs. Friend accepted she held with 
fervor; and since she regarded loyalty to the king and 
patriotism as duties, she was prepared to throw herself 
into the struggle with Napoleon with all her strength, 
and to make any sacrifice that might come in her way. 
She was thus eager to accept when Mr. Raby begged 
to have the honor of escorting the ladies to a military 
review to be held at Lewes. It was to be a grand 


22 


THEY WENT TO THE REVIEW 23 

occasion; the Prince of Wales was coming down for 
it, and Mr. Pitt, who as Warden of the Cinque Ports had 
been the soul of the Volunteer movement in Kent, was 
also able to be present. The expedition would be more 
fatiguing than anything Mrs. Friend had yet done, but 
she was gaining strength rapidly, and believed she would 
be equal to it. She wished to go, and therefore was 
confident she could. Susan, too^ was full of enthusiasm 
for any military spectacle. Friend was likewise well 
pleased to accept, so it was arranged without demur on 
any side. 

It was a beautiful day. Susan, looking lovely in a 
white muslin gown, with a short French mantle of pink 
sarsenet over her shoulders, and a gipsy hat tied with a 
pink ribbon, mounted Mr. Raby’s curricle, while Mr. and 
Mrs. Friend and Lady Anne followed in the chariot of 
the latter. Lady Anne had rallied her cousin a little on 
his admiration for Susan. Mind you don’t get caught, 
Thomas, before you know what you’re about. She’s a 
charming girl, I admit, and as lovely as an angel; but 
what’s her family and fortune? You must not throw 
yourself away, my dear cousin.” 

I imagine you were satisfied that her family is re- 
spectable before you admitted her to your acquaintance,” 
replied Mr. Raby. 

'' Oh, her family is decent enough, but not equal to 
yours^ Tom. Mr. Friend appears to be a self-made man, 
but he comes of a good stock. Wasn’t there a Sir John 
Friend who distinguished himself somehow in William 
III.’s time?” 

'' Are you thinking of Sir John Friend the Jacobite, 
who was executed for high treason in 1695 ? ” 

'' I suppose I was ; I had quite forgotten what he did. 
Dear me, dear me! Well, that’s quite a creditable way 
of ending; one may say so now. But we don’t know, 
after all, if it was the same family. Mrs. Friend at any 


24 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

rate is very respectably connected. They pass very well 
for Brighton acquaintances, but that does not make 
them fit for an alliance with the Sandown family, Tom. 
Besides, the girl is only an adopted daughter. Heaven 
only knows what her birth is.’’ 

After all, birth is not the only qualification,” said 
Mr. Raby. But do not be alarmed, my dear cousin. 
I have not the slightest intention of marrying at 
present.” 

So Lady Anne allowed Mr. Raby to drive Susan in his 
curricle ; though she put no very great faith in his assur- 
ances. Still, she knew she could rely on Tom’s steady 
sense. He was not given to acting on impulse, and the 
time had not come for further interference. 

The review was a splendid spectacle. The Prince was 
there, with Mrs. Fitzherbert at his side; there was the 
Russian ambassador and the renowned French general, 
Dumouriez; there were notabilities such as the Duke 
and Duchess of Marlborough, the Duke of Portland, 
Lord Eldon, and the great Pitt, all three members of the 
Cabinet. Of the other party there was the celebrated 
Richard Brinsley Sheridan, amicably chatting with the 
Prince of Wales; and Fox, keeping his distance from 
Mrs. Fitzherbert. There were famous beauties such as 
Lady Jersey and the Duchess of Devonshire; there were 
many sporting friends of the Prince such as Sir John 
Lade, Captain Crampton, Captain Barclay, and Mr. 
Mellish. Mr. Raby did his duty in pointing out the 
celebrities to Susan, but it is to be feared that she was 
more interested in the military spectacle and the splendor 
of the general scene than in what he considered the 
center of attraction — the members of the Cabinet 
present and in especial the slight, still figure of William 
Pitt. 

The soldiers in their tall hats with bristling plumes 
marched and countermarched, drums banged, trumpets 


THEY WENT TO THE REVIEW 25 

brayed^ banners waved, gallant officers on splendid 
chargers galloped about; the spectators huzzaed, every- 
one shouted, and in short there was all the noise, dust, 
heat, and confusion that could be demanded for the most 
brilliant review. Susan's enthusiasm was stirred to the 
depths. The sound of the bugles signaling a charge, 
the apparently irresistible onset of the masses of men 
all moving like one, thrilled her blood. '' Oh, how 
splendid they are ! " she exclaimed. To think of all 
these gallant fellows, every one of them ready to give his 
life for his country! What heroes they are!" 

And do you indeed consider a soldier's life so much 
more admirable than any other. Miss Marny ? " in- 
quired her companion. 

‘‘ Certainly I do under the present circumstances, when 
our country is in daily dread of invasion," replied Susan. 
“ I think it is the most glorious thing in the world to be 
a soldier. But, of course, every one cannot be a soldier, 
and the next best thing is to volunteer. I wonder 
every man does not volunteer. I would, if I were a 
man." 

'‘Would you, indeed, Miss Marny? I admire your 
spirit." 

" I would, indeed. I wish I were a man. When I 
think of foreigners invading these shores, and Bonaparte 
dreaming that he can conquer England, I long to be a 
man to strike a blow at them." 

“ Leave that to us. Miss Marny. There is one arm at 
least that will strike with its utmost strength, and that 
will receive new power from the thought of your 
sympathy." 

“ Oh ! how I envy you men ! You don't think me very 
hard-hearted and unfeminine for saying so, I hope, Mr. 
Raby? Of course, being only a female, I should not 
really like to fight, even if I could; but I wish I had 
been born a man." 


26 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

I think you show a most charming spirit, and are in 
every respect what a female should be,’’ said Mr. Raby 
with awkward warmth. He always turned stiffer in the 
act of paying a compliment, which was really testimony 
to his sincerity; but it unfortunately destroyed the effect 
of his pretty speeches. Susan thought him awkward 
and stupid. 

At the conclusion of the spectacle, however, he found 
he had enjoyed everything amazingly. Mrs. Friend and 
Lady Anne, being tired, went to rest in a cottage near, 
where curds and whey and other rustic refreshments 
were to be had; while Mr. Raby, Friend, and Susan 
walked about among the dispersing spectators, nodding 
to acquaintances and interchanging congratulatory re- 
marks. Presently they found themselves close to Mr. 
Pitt, who at that moment turned and recognized Mr. 
Raby. ‘‘ Ah, Raby ; your servant, sir,” said the great 
man. '‘Your most obedient, Mr. Pitt. A splendid re- 
view, sir,” said Raby, and then seizing the opportunity, 
" May I have the honor of introducing Mr. Friend? ” 

Pitt looked keenly at Friend, who bowed and re- 
marked, " I believe 1 already have the honor of being 
known to Mr. Pitt.” 

" Ah, indeed ! I did not recognize you for the mo- 
ment, Mr. Friend,” said Pitt coldly. 

“ Mr. Friend is staying in Brighton with his family,” 
said Raby, as Pitt made no further remark. " He is 
much interested in military matters and our Volunteer 
movement.” 

" Indeed. Are you a Volunteer yourself, sir?” 

" No, sir; I cannot command sufficient leisure,” replied 
Friend. And then some important personage on his 
other side addressed Pitt, and he turned away, saying to 
Raby over his shoulder, " I shall see you next week in 
the House, Raby, I presume ? ” 

" So that is the great Mr. Pitt ! ” exclaimed Susan, 


THEY WENT TO THE REVIEW 27 

when they were out of earshot. He looks worn and 
ill.’’ 

'' He has felt the scandalous attack on Lord Melville, 
acutely,” said Raby. On the night Mr. Whitbread’s 
resolution against him was carried — the night the 
Speaker gave his casting-vote against us — magnificent as 
his self-command is on ordinary occasions, I assure you 
the tears were trickling down his cheeks. I was standing 
close to him, and I saw them. It has been an infamous 
business.” 

“ H’m! ” said Friend dryly. But no one impeaches 
Lord Melville’s personal honor.” 

’Twould be impossible to do so — impossible to all, 
that is, but those infamous and venomous followers of 
Fox, men who themselves understand the meaning 
neither of honor nor of honesty,” said Raby. 

Susan, who had never heard of Lord Melville and did 
not know of what he was accused, ventured to inquire 
of her uncle. '' Lord Melville, love, was First Lord of 
the Admiralty and Treasurer of the Navy, and has been 
accused in Parliament of want of proper care in the 
administration of the public money,” he replied. Mr. 
Raby eagerly supplemented the information. Like all 
members of Parliament at that time he was engrossed 
in the subject, and he inflicted on Friend a long and 
minute account of all the proceedings, and all the opin- 
ions of the principal members of the Government. Poor 
Susan was heartily tired of Lord Melville’s name 
before they rejoined the elder ladies to return to 
Brighton. 

But she had had enough of interest to last her for 
many days, or even months or years of her old quiet life. 
She had seen the great Pitt, “ the Pilot that weathered 
the storm,” face to face; and had discovered that her 
uncle was of his acquaintance, though not as it appeared 
so intimately as to afford him any particular pleasure 


28 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

in the meeting. She ventured to hint as much to Mr. 
Raby on the homeward drive. Mr. Pitt’s manners are 
always reserved,” he replied. He has the reputation 
of being dry and haughty in his deportment. I cannot 
myself think the accusation deserved; he has always 
been kindness and affability itself to me.” 

Lord Sandown, however, was a neighbor of Pitt’s at 
Walmer Castle ; his estates in the district were very large. 
Besides, there was a connection between the Raby family 
and the Edens, with whom Pitt would once have been 
glad to have allied himself had he felt his fortune suffi- 
cient to support a wife in the style he thought proper 
to his position : so that Mr. Thomas Raby belonged to 
the charmed circle within which Pitt’s haughty manners 
never showed themselves. 

The review took place about ten days after their 
arrival at Brighton ; and the next day, seeing that his 
wife had borne the fatigue very well. Friend announced 
that he must immediately leave them. He had affairs, 
he said, that were urgently demanding his attention. 
He had already lost valuable time through his wife’s 
illness; he could now delay no longer. They would 
be quite safe and comfortable without him, having made 
friends among the best Brighton society. 

Mrs. Friend had had no idea that he would not be 
able to stay with them for the whole visit; and was 
quite overcome at hearing it. She was naturally of a 
nervous constitution, and had become more timorous 
and fearful through her ill health. She had schooled 
herself to bear his frequent absences in general without 
complaint, but this occasion was a special injury; she 
felt she had been brought to Brighton on false pretenses. 
‘‘ I never would have consented to come if I had not 
understood you would be with me,” she reproached 
him. 

‘‘ Nay, my dearest life, I hoped I could have managed 


THEY WENT TO THE REVIEW 29 

a longer stay/’ replied Friend apologetically. ‘‘And 
you know the air is doing you so much good. It would 
have been a thousand pities if you had not come.” 

“You cannot really mean to leave me alone in this 
strange place with the child on my hands ? ” she de- 
manded. 

“ What can you fear, my dearest? You have a house- 
ful of servants to protect you. The house you are 
in alone entitles you to respect; Lord Mountstephen’s 
name is a guarantee for your safety. What possible 
cause for apprehension can you have ? ” 

She could not say; but visions of hostility and insult 
floated vaguely before her eyes. In the depths of her 
mind was a misgiving lest she might be called to account 
for assuming a position to which she had no right; of 
being branded as an adventurer. She had no confidence 
in her husband’s title to mix with this kind of society: 
but she dared not acknowledge this to him. 

“ There are those dreadful dissolute companions of 
the Prince of Wales,” she said. 

“ But he is not in Brighton, my love. He only came 
down to Lewes for the review, and his Hangers and 
Lades will go back with him. Cheer up and be a sen- 
sible little woman. I will return at the earliest possible 
minute. You know it is only the gravest matters that 
take me away from you.” 

“ Dearest, tell me what your errand is. Let me know 
something of its nature. I could let you go — oh how 
readily and joyfully, if I knew its importance. You 
don’t distrust me, dearest life? You don’t believe me 
unfit to be trusted with a secret? Think how long I 
have kept silence and never asked a question, lest you 
should fancy me actuated by idle womanish curiosity. 
It is not that, husband; it is no mere curiosity that 
makes me ask. It affects my happiness, my confidence 
in you. For what must I think — what conclusion must 


30 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

I be forced to, when you will not let me — me your 
wife — know where you go, nor what you do, nor how 
you make your money ? 

‘'Well, Polly ?’’ he challenged her. “And what is 
your conclusion ? ’’ 

“ That it is something of which you are ashamed — 
that you make your money by unlawful means,’' she 
said, looking him straight in the eyes. 

“ That’s a rash conclusion, my darling,” he replied, 
trying to laugh. “ Do you fancy me a highwayman, 
then, and suppose I go out on the roads and take purses ? 
No, my dear; my trade is political^ and you have enough 
sense to see that political secrets are not things to be 
talked about, even to one’s wife.” 

“ But without talking about them, without divulging 
any secret, you could surely let me know where you are 
going and the nature of your errand. Is it Parliamen- 
tary business? Has it to do with the war? Will it 
take you into danger ? ” 

“ Ah, now you want to know the whole story. Just 
like a woman; as soon as I drop a single word you’re 
on me for the whole. You’re all alike; give you an 
inch and you’ll take an ell.” 

“ But, dearest love, you have really told me nothing. 
Of course I know your employment is political.” 

“ Well, Polly; and will not that content you? ” 

• “ It must, dearest, if you will tell me no more. But 
that knowledge does not satisfy me why you must leave 
me now. Tell me this at least, husband; will your 
errand take you into any danger?” 

“Danger? No, my love, no more than the ordinary 
course of business always involves. Men of affairs are 
not quite as exempt from danger as shopkeepers behind 
their counters; but you needn’t suppose I’m sure to be 
pistoled by a highwayman or get my neck broken by a 
fall from my horse because I travel about.” 


THEY WENT TO THE REVIEW 31 

No, my dear, I hope not. I was not thinking of 
danger of that nature.” 

“Of what then, Polly?” 

“ I hardly know ; dangers from the enemy, perhaps ; 
only you seem to bear a charmed life, or how could you 
venture into France in time of war?” 

“I in France, Polly? What makes you suppose 
that?” 

“Your greatcoat has been soaked with salt water; 
and your linen, I feel certain, has been washed by a 
French laundress.” 

“ Why, Polly, you'd make an inquiry agent at Bow 
Street. I am well watched, I see.” 

“ Dearest, you can’t expect me to feel no anxiety 
about you. I am in continual dread of hearing of your 
arrest or imprisonment. You know, my love, when 
political missions of deep secrecy are mentioned, such 
dangers must occur to one.” 

“ Wise little woman ! What a head you have, Polly ! ” 
laughed Friend, taking her face between his hands 
“ Trust me, my life. Whatever dangers I may run, 
I am pretty well able to guard against them. And there’s 
another safeguard you have, my love,” he continued 
seriously. “ I never forget that I am carrying your 
dear happiness with me wherever I go; and that’s as 
precious to me as my own life. I am not likely to risk 
that lightly, little woman. For you do place your happi- 
ness in this rough old carcase of mine, don’t you, dear- 
est?” 

“ All, all,” she murmured, resting her head against 
him. “ Only not in your — not in what you choose to 
call your carcase, husband. In your immortal soul, — 
in our immortal love.” 

He caressed her very tenderly; yet, her face being 
hidden on his breast, his eyes twinkled with roguish 
mockery and he pulled an instantaneous grimace over 


32 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

her head. She was aware only of the pressure of his 
encircling arms, of his kisses on her forehead, and was 
content. She might have seen his expression, however, 
without experiencing any new shock. That he could 
not respond to her in her higher flights she was only too 
well aware. But though so different in quality, their 
affection was strong enough to override all disparities: 
in fact, their very discords seemed to enrich the har- 
monies of the love in which they were resolved. 


CHAPTER IV 


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT 

That same night Friend left Brighton; and his wife 
after his departure dropped back at once into languor 
and feebleness. Susan, absorbed in romantic visions 
of war and heroism and love, felt no concern at this; 
she hardly noticed it : but it had a practical inconvenience 
which she felt. It left her with no other companion 
for her daily walks than the girl who waited on her; 
for Betty, resolving to supply Susan’s deficiencies by 
making extra fuss herself, would not stir from her 
mistress. But this was soon remedied by Lady Anne 
Craven, who finding that Susan was left much to her- 
self, begged that she might be allowed to join her party 
whenever she liked. Mrs. Friend was very grateful 
for the invitation, and gave a thankful consent; but she 
was not prepared for its consequences. The next step 
was that their new acquaintance begged to be allowed 
to take Susan to visit Mrs. Fitzherbert. The great lady 
had noticed Lady Anne’s beautiful protegee, and wanted 
to know her. She had herself asked her to bring her 
young friend. Mrs. Friend was horror-stricken. ‘‘ Dear 
Lady Anne ! ” she exclaimed, I could never let Susan 
enter that house ! ” 

My dear madam, you are over-scrupulous, I pro- 
test, Mrs. Fitzherbert is accepted everywhere as the wife 
of His Royal Highness. In fact, an invitation from 
such a quarter is almost equivalent to a command.” 

33 


34 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

I should be extremely sorry to appear rude and dis- 
obliging, but I cannot, indeed I cannot allow my Susan 
to visit there/’ 

‘‘But what is your objection, ma’am? Mrs. Fitz- 
herbert is actually and in reality the Prince’s wedded 
wife. I know on the best authority that they are really 
legally married. Her claim is acknowledged in the 
highest quarters; the Duke of York treats her as a 
sister.” 

“ Dear Lady Anne ! It cannot be a legal marriage. 
There is the Princess of Wales.” 

“ But the Prince married Mrs. Fitzherbert before he 
went through the ceremony with the Princess of Wales. 
I assure you, no one in Brighton dreams of questioning 
Mrs. Fitzherbert’s position. She would be very much 
hurt if she knew it was doubted; and she is a lady of 
the strictest virtue. And such kindness of heart ! Such 
gracious condescending manners ! ” 

“ It is a very sad position, of course, but — — ” 

“ Her sufferings have been terrible, poor creature ! 
She has been greatly maligned; and she has the utmost 
nicety of conscience. I do not see myself how greater 
delicacy could have been shown.” 

Mrs. Friend dreaded nothing so much as to join in a 
persecution or to fail in charity; and when Lady Anne 
took the line of dwelling on Mrs. Fitzherbert’s suffer- 
ings, she began to waver. Moreover she attached so 
much more importance to a religious ceremony than to 
a legal one, that she asked herself whether in strictness 
it were not the Princess of Wales who occupied an 
ambiguous position. She was not very strong in argu- 
ment, and easily talked over by any one who possessed 
a good flow of words and plenty of confidence; and 
after Lady Anne had dwelt on Mrs. Fitzherbert’s vir-» 
tues and the pain it would give her to have her request 
refused, she yielded and gave her consent. Of course 


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT 


35 


upon reflection she repented. She bethought herself 
that Susan’s young reputation should be shielded from 
the remotest contact with scandal ; she wondered what 
her husband would say; and worked herself up into 
an agony of apprehension over the dissolute acquaint- 
ances of the Prince that the child might meet beneath 
that roof. But it was too late. Susan, in the highest 
possible spirits, had flown across the Steine to Lady 
Anne’s cottage, and the two were without doubt at 
that moment in the center of the circle of danger. 

Susan came back radiant. Mrs. Fitzherbert’s draw- 
ing-room was full of company, and she seemed to have 
been the attraction of the evening. There was a young 
Lord Combleigh there, and his friend a Mr. Evelyn 
Armour, whose attentions cast those of her humble 
servant Mr. Raby into the shade. Lord Combleigh 
had audibly pronounced her to be the prettiest creature 
seen in Brighton this twelvemonth ; Mr. Armour told 
her she had the eyes of an angel with the bloom of a 
Venus. ‘‘Foolish flattery!” said Mrs. Friend. 

“ They were very foolish, dear aunt, but I don’t think 
they were insincere. Because if they had been, they 
need not have come near me, need they? There is 
nothing to attract people to me, unless they really do 
happen to like me. It is not as if I were a young lady 
of rank or of great fortune.” 

“ They may admire your face, my love, just for its 
novelty, without feeling the slightest esteem for your 
mind or for your character. You must be on your 
guard, my Susan, against flatterers. Their praises of 
you mean nothing but that their eye is caught by your 
outward looks, the least precious part of yourself, as 
you know very well, my dear; and they have no motive 
at all unless they mean to deceive and betray you, and 
by lifting you up to a false esteem of yourself, to de- 
grade you more easily afterwards.” 


36 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

'' Oh, rm sure Mr. Armour would not deceive or 
betray me, dearest aunt. He seemed so much in earnest ! 
Just fancy, he is a grandson of Lord Mountstephen, 
whose house we are staying in. He was vastly sur- 
prised when he heard where we are staying. He says 
he must come and pay his respects to you, aunt. I 
wonder he is not living here himself.” 

It seemed strange to Mrs. Friend also; but she told 
Susan many reasons might account for it. The child 
would have chattered on half the night, till Mrs. Friend 
stopped her and sent her to bed with a further warning 
against trusting to the praises of young men. But it 
was as ineffectual as all such wisdom is fated to be. 
Susan, innocent as any convent nursling, could not believe 
in the possibility of harm in anything so sweet as the 
homage she was receiving. She was puzzled by the 
weight her aunt laid on the matter. What does she 
mean by ‘ betray ’ and ‘ degrade ’ ? ” she thought. What 
harm could these gentlemen possibly do me? I might 
get my head full of silly notions and grow arrogant 
and vain; but could that be called a betrayal? It must 
be what aunt meant. But I believe she exaggerates. 
I am certain these gentlemen admired me ; but they were 
trying to do me honor; they would like to raise me, not 
degrade me. They seem to think I am a sort of queen ; 
nothing would be too good for me if they had their 
way. It is delightful; they are only too good and kind. 
I will try not to let myself be puffed up and grow vain 
and conceited; but I don’t see how there can be any 
betrayal in the case.” 

There was a marked difference between the society 
Susan met at Mrs. Fitzherbert’s and that to which she 
had been introduced by Lady Anne. Notwithstanding 
the latter lady’s disclaimer of extending her politics into 
social life, most of her friends were of good old Tory 
connections; whereas Mrs. Fitzherbert’s house was a 


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT 


37 


meeting-place for all the wildest Whig partisans of the 
Prince of Wales. Partly in flattery of their leader, 
partly through their natural inclinations, they made it 
their boast to be men of wit and gallantry, furious 
gamblers, hard drinkers, and of loose morals; while 
the Tory section of society, taking its tone from the 
Court, professed an outward decorum; though it was 
well known that strict principles were by no means a 
passport to the favor of George the Third in political 
matters. Mrs. Fitzherbert, though not undeserving of 
the good character ascribed to her by Lady Anne Craven, 
had an easy temper and was far from demanding a 
high standard of manners from her guests ; and if 
Mrs. Friend had been a witness of some of the scenes 
that took place in that drawing-room, she would have 
been firm enough in her refusal to let Susan enter it. 
Lady Anne, more accustomed to the manners of polite 
society, and with a true Tory veneration for the aber- 
rations of Royalty, thought little harm of horseplay, 
innuendo, and broad witticism, of which, moreover, she 
supposed Susan too young to perceive the significance. 
And she was quite right. Susan understood nothing 
whatever; though Lady Anne, by her injudicious treat- 
ment of the girFs request for explanations, her parade 
of mystery, and her frequent ‘‘ Young girls of your age, 
my dear, should know nothing of such things,’^ revealed 
to her the existence of a certain line of subject of which 
she had previously been unconscious. But it did not 
greatly interest her as yet. She soon began to be aware, 
however, of a lack of respect in the open admiration 
with which the younger gentlemen treated her. Lord 
Combleigh and Mr. Armour had no idea of engaging 
a beauty's attention otherwise than by undisguised com- 
pliments; and after she had heard a dozen times or so 
that she was the loveliest young creature on earth, the 
statement began to pall upon her, and she found her 


38 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

admirers grow tiresome. She compared them with Mr. 
Raby, and began to think of him and his ceaseless talk 
of Parliament with new toleration. Perhaps she was 
the more readily softened towards him as he was not 
present to weary her further. He had gone back after 
the Lewes review to resume his legislative duties, as- 
suring her he would use his utmost endeavors to run 
down again later on. He, however, had always been 
deferential, had appealed to her intellect, had tried to 
enlist her sympathies. Mr. Armour made no such at- 
tempt. Pie seemed to think she had no interest in life 
beyond her own looks. And, moreover, he grew in- 
solent. One day when they happened to be alone in the 
balcony of Mrs. Fitzherbert's drawing-room for a mo- 
ment, he addressed her familiarly as his angel, and 
tried to pass his arm round her waist. Deeply offended, 
but not knowing how to express her resentment, she 
left the balcony and placed herself behind Lady Anne, 
who was playing Pam at a card-table; nor would she 
speak to the offender for the next few days. She began 
now dimly to realize the meaning of her aunt's warn- 
ings. She found that the admiration she excited was 
not quite the unselfish, chivalrous emotion which she had 
supposed. But her disillusionment did not go so far as 
to disgust her with society. She had conceived a roman- 
tic affection for the beautiful Mrs. Fitzherbert, and 
caused Mrs. Friend many pangs of terror by her rhap- 
sodies of praise. She had formed a great friendship, 
too, with one of Mrs. Creevey's daughters, a girl about 
a year older than herself ; and most of the elder ladies 
were very kind to her. So that though the first magical 
glow of delight had waned which had seemed to raise 
her from earth and lift her into a seventh heaven of 
adoration and power, enough remained to make her en- 
joyment very vivid and satisfactory. 

Besides the promenades of the quality upon the Steine, 


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT 


39 


there were frequently diversions passing of a more active 
sort. The younger gentlemen amused themselves there 
with various sports, sometimes cricket, sometimes foot- 
races, and sometimes mere rough horseplay of a kind 
that Lady Anne did not think very suitable for Susan’s 
sight. It naturally happened, therefore, that she was 
very anxious to see these pastimes that drew such 
crowds of spectators ; and one morning when Lady Anne 
was engaged and the maid Jenny attended her to the 
bathing-machines, she told her that she wished to stop 
on her return and look on, if anything was going for- 
ward. 

‘‘ And certainly, miss, for why should you not ? ” said 
Jenny. “ They do sure have fine sport here sometimes, 
especially when his Royal Highness the Prince is down. 
La, one year he and a lot of gentlemen were on the 
Steine amusing themselves with shooting like, and they 
shot off the tops of all the chimney-pots on Mr. Wind- 
ham’s house; and there was rare sport once, when one 
gentleman mounted astride of another’s shoulders, and 
they turned a young bullock loose, and the gentleman 
carrying the other on his shoulders raced the bullock 
all round the Steine.” 

'' I should have liked to see that ; why will Lady 
Anne never let me stay to watch ? ” said Susan. ‘‘ There 
was quite a crowd yesterday opposite the Castle Tavern, 
but I could not see what it was about.” 

They do say there was a bet between two gentlemen 
that one would carry the other twice round the Steine; 
and the other bet him he wouldn’t ; and when they comes 
to do it, he says he’ll carry him but not his clothes, and 
as how he’d never bargained to carry his clothes, so 
he’s to strip, if you please, before all the company. To 
be sure there’d be a great crowd gathered for a 
sight like that; but it didn’t come to nothing after 
all.” 


40 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Jenny, you should not repeat such things,” said Su- 
san, growing red. 

Well^ come on, miss; sure enough there’s some fun 
going forward to-day. What a squealing, to be sure! 
Why, it’s a pig they’ve got! Come on, miss, and see 
the sport.” 

'‘Are you sure it’s nothing horrid, Jenny?” asked 
Susan, hanging back. 

" Oh no, nothing horrid, nothing horrid at all, miss,” 
said Jenny, eagerly pushing forward to the rails which 
inclosed the turf. "Do just look, miss! If this isn’t 
rare sport ! They’ve tied a young pigling to a post, and 
are making a cock-shy of him ! ” 

Jenny described the sport with accuracy. A young 
pig, innocently pinky-white and in the tender flower 
of his age, was tied by a rope of ten or twelve feet long 
to a post ; and a group of noble sportsmen, among whom 
Susan recognized Sir John Lade, Lord Combleigh, Mr. 
Armour, and others, were pelting it with round beach 
pebbles. Every hit was recorded by a piercing squeal 
from the victim, who rushed round and round his stake 
mad with terror, and entranced the spectators with de- 
light when he entangled himself in his tether or got 
pulled up short by having wound it tightly round the 
stake. The humor of the scene failed to reach Susan’s 
comprehension. She felt nothing but pity for the victim 
and disgust at the cruelty of the sport; but the press of 
spectators did not allow her an immediate retreat. " O 
Jenny, come away!” she cried; but Jenny would not 
lend her assistance. Just then one of the marksmen 
either accidentally or purposely armed himself with a 
sharp-edged flint instead of a smooth pebble; and the 
success of the shot was marked by a crimson gash on 
the clean white side, and the blood streamed down. The 
victim’s shriek of pain was more than Susan could bear ; 
but the noise and laughter had collected such a crowd 


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT 


41 


that she could not extricate herself. She could only 
close her eyes and turn away, when a roar of indigna- 
tion made her look round for its cause. A young man 
had leapt from the group of sportsmen and had cut the 
pig’s cord. It was making off at full speed towards a 
side-street, pursued by some of the spectators while 
others tried to intercept its course. But the chief atten- 
tion of the crowd was given to the pig’s deliverer, who 
stood at the post in a fine posture of defense. Cries of 
anger and remonstrance assailed him : one or two 
pebbles flew at him. ‘‘ I’d do it again ! ” he was shout- 
ing. '' If any of you gentlemen are dissatisfied, I’m 
ready to defend my conduct with my fists. Stop your 
cowardly stone-throwing; come on like Britons if you 
want to fight; I’m your man; I’d fight any three of 
you ! ” But no one accepted the challenge, though oaths 
and reproaches were hurled freely at him. 

‘‘Come, Jenny, come away!” said Susan, giving a 
perfunctory little pull at the maid’s arm. But she was 
really now as reluctant to stir as Jenny; only a feeling 
of consistency and dignity made her offer to depart. 
And Jenny opposed a passive resistance. “ There’ll be 
a fight ; they’ll fight over it for sure 1 ” she exclaimed, 
“ Oh la, miss, let’s stay and see it ! ” 

The fact was that Susan was fascinated by the ap- 
pearance of the pig’s champion. He was a splendidly 
made young fellow of one-and-twenty, tall and lightly 
built, with long arms and powerful shoulders surmount- 
ing a slight waist and loins, so as to give him an elastic, 
graceful carriage, set off by the noble poise of the head. 
The head itself was remarkably well shaped and covered 
with curly yellow hair; the features were regular, and 
wore a frank, manly expression. She was conscious 
of a strange pang of admiration; and if his good looks 
alone would not have held her motionless, his generous 
intervention on behalf of the poor little pig and his 


42 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

courage in defying the angry crowd, made her heart 
swell with such a press of feelings as chained her feet 
to the spot. 

Lord Combleigh had sprung at him and seized him to 
drag him away; but a mere flicker of that wonderful 
arm sent him sprawling on the ground. There was a 
roar of laughter. The other men closed in, shouting and 
gesticulating; some angry words were heard, but mirth 
was carrying the day. They're all going to fight ! " 
declared Jenny, peeping under the elbow of the man in 
front of her. ‘‘No, they're not; they're urging ’em to 
make it up. They want him to fight one of 'em. He's 
going to fight Captain Barclay ! " 

“ Gully ! Gully ! Send for Gully ! " shouted voices. 
“Set him to fight Gully!” 

“ Who is that they are calling for ? ” asked Susan. 

“ Why, Gully — why, he’s the great fighting man ; the 
Prince's prize-fighter. He's down here training under 
Captain Barclay. This here young chap what let the 
pig go is North, Lord Combleigh's man, in training for 
the ring. He's a pretty fellow, ain’t he, miss ? ” 

“ Come away, Jenny,” said Susan, an unbearable dis- 
gust coming over her. “ Let’s go home. We don't want 
to see a brawl between prize-fighters.” 

“ La, miss, it 'ud be as pretty a turn-up as ever you 
see,” said Jenny, lingering reluctantly; but Susan was 
firm, and she had to follow. “ Well, now I declare, miss, 
it's a pity to miss the sight; and such good places as 
we had too. He's a picture for a king, that young 
North; how beautiful he did look to be sure as he stood 
there and defied 'em all to come on! Not but what 
it was a saucy thing to do to spoil the gentlemen's 
sport in such a way like. But it shows a good heart 
in him, don't it, miss? Well, there then, a tender heart 
towards dumb animals is what I always did like myself ; 
and there's many as thinks themselves his betters as I 


LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT 


43 


wouldn^t say, ‘ Thank you ’ to for all their civility ; 
while if it was him as should come up and ask me for 
a kiss ’’ 

‘‘Be quiet, Jenny! Hold your tongue, do!'’ cried 
Susan. She had deigned to feel an interest in the young 
man herself; and did Jenny dare to think herself on a 
level with him? 

“I wasn't a-saying no harm, miss," protested Jenny; 
but Susan cut her short with “ Hold your tongue when 
I bid you, girl." 

She was deeply mortified. A pugilist training for the 
ring! Was this her hero; the companion of jockeys 
and rat-catchers, and all that was lowest and most brutal ? 
And yet under all this disgust, the recollection of his 
noble appearance thrilled through her. “ He may have 
a soul above his trade; he may perhaps be a victim of 
ill-fortune — some scion of a noble house stolen from 
his home in infancy," she thought, drawing freely on 
her stock of romances. “ Surely so gallant an exterior 
can never conceal a base or vulgar soul ? " 

She would not suffer Jenny to mention the affair 
again; but she bent her ear eagerly to catch any morsel 
of gossip about the morning's occurrences that might 
transpire ; but it was not till the next day that she heard 
from old Martha Gunn, the bathing-woman, on whose 
garrulity she could rely, that “ there had been a bit of 
a mill on the Steine between Gully the Prince's man and 
that young fellow of Lord Combleigh's, North; and 
Gully had knocked the young chap into a cocked hat." 
Her heart owned a pang of disappointment, and she 
allowed herself to grieve over the humiliation and prob- 
able disfigurement of her hero: what dreadful injury, 
life-long no doubt, was implied by that ominous phrase? 
Her apprehensions on this score, however, were speedily 
relived; for on her second turn round the Steine that 
afternoon with Mrs. Friend and Lady Anne, she perceived 


44 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

the object of her solicitude walking with Lord Com- 
bleigh, and looking quite unaltered except for a strip of 
plaster across the jaw. Their course led them close 
to the ladies. Lord Combleigh took otf his hat and 
bowed, and Susan glancing eagerly at his companion, 
received his glance full in her face. Her eyes dropped ; 
she blushed from brow to chin. She did not see that 
he exhibited a similar mark of confusion, for so greatly 
was she overcome that she shrank behind Lady Anne 
and did not venture to look up till they had turned the 
corner of the Steine. To think that he had noticed 
her threw her into an unaccountable state of agitation. 
Fortunately her companions, engrossed in their own 
conversation, had perceived neither the incident nor the 
confusion it caused her. 


CHAPTER V 


A CHAPTER OF LOW LIFE 

“North! Young North! You’re to go to Dr. 
Vincent in his study.” 

It was an ominous summons; and all the boys within 
hearing testified by grimaces and jeers their anticipa- 
tions of trouble. Young North, a tall handsome lad 
of seventeen, prepared to obey with puzzled misgiving. 
He could not think what crime could have come to 
light, being as far as he knew tolerably innocent of 
mischief at the moment. With a sinking heart he 
entered the study and stood before the great and dreaded 
head of Westminster School. 

“ Ah, young North,” said Dr. Vincent, glancing up at 
him from under his shaggy brows, and then burying 
himself again among the papers in front of him. He 
remained silent for a considerable and very trying space, 
reading a single letter, it appeared, over and over again. 
North waited in nervous expectation. 

“ William North,” said Dr. Vincent at length, raising 
his head and gazing at the boy through his spectacles 
and speaking with a slow, measured utterance, “ I have 
to impart to you a trying piece of news, a very un- 
fortunate occurrence — for you. I have this morning 
received information of the sudden death of your pro- 
tector, Lord Budeley, through an accident in the shoot- 
ing-field. I regret to say that his lawyers, who write 
to me with intelligence of the tragic event, inform me 

45 


46 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

that he has died without a will, and that no provision 
has been made for you/’ 

I wanted no provision from him,” said the boy de- 
fiantly. 

‘‘ You are, however, as I understand, entirely destitute 
of other assistance; and some expression of regret. 
North, on the death of your only friend and most 
generous protector, would better beseem you than a vain 
show of independence. I take it you are now thrown 
upon the world upon your own resources. You per- 
ceive that your connection with Westminster College is 
at an end.” 

Very well, sir. I may take my books and clothes, 
1 suppose ? Shall I go at once ? ” 

Dr. Vincent hesitated a moment. To turn the boy 
out into the streets was not agreeable to him ; but he saw 
nothing else to be done. ‘"Yes,” he assented gravely; 
‘‘ you may remove your belongings and go at once. You 
will, I suppose, apply to the representatives of your late 
protector: it is highly probable that their respect for 
Lord Budeley’s memory or their sense of charity will 
induce them to aiford you some assistance. Here is 
the name and address of the firm of lawyers who man- 
age the affairs of the lamented deceased. I should 
advise you in the first place to apply to them. And 
now. North, notwithstanding your somewhat unfeeling 
reception of these calamitous tidings, you have my good 
wishes for your future. Your conduct here has been 
in the main highly creditable to your late lamented 
noble patron : you leave us with a good education 
and a high character : and I trust you will find 
these invaluable possessions a safe provision for your 
future.” 

He waved the boy away wth a comfortable sense of 
having spoken generously. William North, his heart too 
full for speech, betook himself to his dormitory till he 


A CHAPTER OF LOW LIFE 


47 


should be sufficiently recovered to collect his belongings 
and depart. He felt no regret at all for the death of 
Lord Budeley, whose supposed relationship to him was 
a source of unbearable shame and resentment. Many 
were the fights he had fought on account of allusions 
to his birth ; and being remarkably strong for his age 
he had succeeded at last in silencing his schoolfellows’ 
tongues. Easy-tempered and forbearing in general, on 
this subject the slightest hint roused him to frenzy; and 
boys pointed him out with awe and admiration to each 
other, and told how young Haslett had spent six weeks 
in bed with a collar-bone and three ribs broken, on ac- 
count of a taunt on this subject. He was glad to be 
rid of a parentage with a stain upon it, even if it left 
him beggared on the London streets ; and he took up 
his bundle of clothes and books and went forth from 
the gates of Westminster School determined at all 
events against attempting to extort the charity of Lord 
Budeley ’s heirs. If he ever could have entertained an 
idea of applying to them. Dr. Vincent’s manner of recom- 
mending the course had made it impossible; and he 
resolved to trust solely to his own strength and to Heaven 
for his future subsistence. 

He took his way eastward along the Strand, past 
Temple Bar into the City. He had five shillings in his 
pocket, and a change of clothes in his bundle, as well as 
a few books. He turned into Paternoster Row, and 
looked about for a bookshop where he could sell his 
library. After trying in vain at a publisher’s, he found 
one; and for the sum of two-and-sixpence parted with 
a Latin Delectus, Xenophon’s Anabasis, a dictionary, a 
calf-bound copy of the Ars Poetica, which he had re- 
ceived as a prize (Lord Budeley had been present at 
the prize-giving that year; poor William never earned a 
prize by his own talents), Robinson Crusoe, and the 
Voyages of Captain Cook. Then, his burden greatly 


48 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

lightened, though far from being equally relieved in 
mind, he began his search for employment. 

He met with no success ; and as, hungry and disheart- 
ened, he was making up his mind to enter a cook-shop 
and fortify himself against future starvation with a 
good dinner, an ill-looking fellow ran violently into him, 
and sneeringly begging his pardon, picked his pocket 
of his money, snatched his bundle from his hand, and 
was off before he had recovered from the shock. It 
was his first experience of the manners and customs of 
street life, but by no means his last. Hungry and worn 
out, he lay down to sleep in the shadow of a dark arch- 
way opening on a little court. While he slept two 
ruffians and a woman set upon him, beat him till he 
was unconscious, and stripped him of all his clothes to 
his shirt. In the morning, while shivering and with 
senses but half returned, he was experimenting to see 
how far his sole remaining garment could be made to 
do duty for the absent ones, he was found by the watch- 
men; who, after much altercation and laying all the 
blame of his unclad condition on him, were about to 
haul him off to the guard-house ; when a woman leaning 
out of one of the windows in the court, attracted by the 
spectacle of a crowd, had the charity to fling him an 
ancient pair of breeches ; which he accepted at the 
moment with the utmost gratitude, though he afterwards 
found a thousand reasons for regretting he had ever put 
them on. And so began Will North’s -®neid, a bitter 
and a hard experience. 

For some weeks William picked up a living as a stray 
dog might. Sometimes a gentleman threw him a copper 
for holding his horse; sometimes a woman gave him a 
hunch of bread and cheese or a bowl of milk ; sometimes 
a beggar shared with him his crusts and half-gnawed 
bones. Once he actually fainted in the street from 
sheer starvation, and a woman of the town took pity 


A CHAPTER OF LOW LIFE 


49 


on him and fed him with bread sopped in wine until 
life returned to him. She gave him to understand that 
he need look no further for a living, for she was willing 
and able to keep him in idleness '' like a gentleman '' on 
her earnings; but North, instead of feeling gratitude, 
was revolted. He often wondered how he lived through 
this period. Many a day dawned on him with such 
sick sensations of exhaustion that he made sure he should 
be dead before it closed; and he discovered that the 
great difficulty of physical existence is not, as he had 
imagined, to live, but to die. He could not die; he 
wished he could. He thought sometimes of following 
Dr. Vincent’s advice and seeking help from his father’s 
representatives, but he always postponed the revolting 
step; and when he reflected that, having torn up and 
flung away the paper with the lawyers’ address, he had 
no means of applying to them save by returning to his 
old school and exposing his destitution to his school- 
master, he rejected the idea with disdain. 

He found his most profitable jobs at the doors of tav- 
erns and at the gates of the great inn yards, where gentle- 
men often would throw him a copper for holding their 
horses, or where the ostlers, leading out the plunging, 
spirited coach-team, were glad of an extra hand when 
the horses were fresh, or when the up-coach came in late, 
and all the passengers shouted for attendance at the 
same time. North discovered in himself a great affec- 
tion for horses, those strong, splendid creatures who 
never repaid one’s best endeavors with oaths and execra- 
tions, whose ill-temper one could account for and pacify, 
whose affection was faithful and disinterested. There 
was a stable-yard in Cheapside, at the Dolphin Inn, 
which he used to haunt in particular: the Portsmouth 
coach started thence, for one of whose horses he con- 
ceived a deep affection, a bay mare whose dark sympa- 
thetic eyes seemed to read all his troubles, and whose 


f5o THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

obvious preference for his hand at her harness-buckles 
cheered his lonely heart. Seeing him handy with the 
horses the ostlers often made use of him: the head of 
the stables at length noticed him, asked him if he wanted 
a job, and took him on as stable-boy. 

Then followed the second period of his independence. 
He had now food, clothes, and a bed in a hay-loft assured 
him, and he liked his work among the horses: what he 
did not like was the constant stream of foul language 
and abuse that flowed over his head, the blows, kicks, 
and thrashings he received, and the atmosphere of drink, 
brutality, and bestiality natural to most of his com- 
panions. He remained acutely conscious that he was 
a gentleman by blood if not by birth, on both sides of 
his parentage ; but if he betrayed by the slightest sign 
that he thought himself above his surroundings, he in- 
creased their evil a hundredfold; and he was fain to 
hold his tongue and dissemble. But a way of escape 
was beginning to open to him. He had been above the 
average for his age in strength and activity at school, 
and his fine development attracted the attention of the 
various sporting characters who thronged the inn yard. 
He was put up to box and wrestle, and his success 
called forth admiration in plenty. He began to take 
lessons ; there were many to instruct him ; he soon found 
he could hold his own ; and even a certain six-foot-one, 
sixteen stone, bullock-shouldered ruffian, who had been 
the chief torment of his life, began to leave him alone 
and to hold him in respect. But it was a squalid, 
miserable life. He often thought in moments of de- 
spondency that it was not worth the living; and won- 
dered if he should not do better to cut his throat and 
have done with it; or at least to enlist for a soldier. 
He would probably have taken this latter course but 
for what was at once his chief consolation and his 
greatest danger: his good looks won him favor from 


A CHAPTER OF LOW LIFE 


SI 


the women wherever he went; and lonely and craving 
for affection as he was, he could not resist their ad- 
vances. It is true he sometimes felt ashamed of him- 
self. He did not enjoy the idea of amours with a slip- 
shod servant-girl or draggle-tailed pot-house alewife; 
but he was not greatly given to reviewing his conduct; 
and the idea, when it did occur, possessed so much less 
force than the reality, that it had little effect in in- 
fluencing his conduct. And when the wenches pressed 
round him so confidingly, and were so kind and affec- 
tionate and inviting to a fellow — why, it was not in 
this fellow to repulse them. 

So time passed, and his strength and skill increased, 
and his fame as a boxer spread till noted '' Corinthian ’’ 
bloods would come to see him spar, and get up matches 
between him and other rising young ornaments of the 
ring; and his good looks increased too, until they at- 
tracted the attention of the landlady of the Dolphin her- 
self, a very grand personage with silk dresses and real 
gold ear-rings in her ears. Will hung back as much 
as he could: he was afraid of this game, and did not 
see any charm in the lady to make him willing to enter 
for it; but her encouragements by-and-by became un- 
mistakable. She pressed him to come any time into 
her private bar — any time he liked; he should always 
find a welcome and a glass of cherry-brandy, always; 
possibly further favors were hinted at. At last, passing 
the door of the sanctum, he was seized and dragged in 
by force. The cherry-brandy was certainly excellent; 
the lady was everything that was amiable; he began to 
think himself a fool to hang back. What wonder that 
he took her at her word and came next time uninvited? 
Alas, there was already an occupant of the snug arm- 
chair by the fire. A portly gentleman with an inflamed 
nose and military bearing sat opposite the fair widow 
and was sipping her cherry-brandy. And then instead 


52 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

of welcoming him, mine hostess fell upon him with such 
vindictive spite and venom as made his hair fairly bristle 
at the roots; a low, filthy, sneaking vagabond he was 
called, a rascal, a thief, a plundering villain, a dirty 
stable cut-throat; she would raise the house on him; 
she would have him whipped out of the yard with a 
kettle at his tail like a mad dog. Like a dog with a 
kettle at his tail indeed Will slunk off, wondering in 
what lay his offense. That it was indeed a serious 
one was proved by the lady’s being as good as her word 
in turning him away. As soon as it was morning he 
was ordered to be off, bag and baggage. But by now 
he had no lack, if not of friends, yet at least of sympa- 
thizers interested in his movements and ready with theif 
advice and suggestions. Old Johnny Stamp, the ex- 
coachman and bruiser, who had trained him in boxing, 
gave him a bed and board; told him it was a thousand 
pities so fine a young chap should not devote himself 
entirely to the ring, promised to find him a patron who 
would look after his future, and vowed that his fortune 
was made — an actual golden, chinking, ponderous for- 
tune in hard round guineas, if he would only be guided 
by him and allow himself to be properly trained and 
coached. 

At this juncture, enter Lord Combleigh, a young Corin- 
thian of the first water and a zealous patron of sport. 
He looked on with lively interest at a sparring-match 
between Will and one of his footmen. Black Jacob, who 
had no small reputation as a bruiser. Will had the 
better of it: Lord Combleigh felt his muscles in an 
ecstasy, measured his chest, shoulders, and arms, took 
his weight, and offered on the spot to engage him per- 
manently at forty pounds a year and his keep, and what- 
ever he should make for himself by a successful fight, 
on condition he went into training at once for a match 
under regular P.R. rules with the Clapton Pet. The 


A CHAPTER OF LOW LIFE 


S3 


offer was too good to be refused. The path was not 
what he would have chosen, but any means of raising 
himself to fortune and out of the crowd of bullies, 
blackguards, and drunkards in which he had been stew- 
ing was welcome; so he entered Lord Combleigh's serv- 
ice as a professional bruiser. 

And this began the third chapter of William North’s 
experiences. At first he felt fairly satisfied with his 
new situation. He had bettered his position socially 
and with regard to money; and he had escaped from 
some of the worst and most disgusting of his old sur- 
roundings. But whether on the whole he had reason 
to congratulate himself he soon began to doubt; and 
he doubted increasingly as time went on, until a day 
came when he heartily wished himself back among the 
horses in the stable-yard of the Dolphin Inn. He had 
never found a friend to equal the dear old bay mare. 
On the whole, he concluded the average tone of his 
new associates to be even lower than that of his old 
ones. It was true he did not see anything so bad as 
the worst of his old life, but then neither did he see 
anything so good as its best. Into the inn-yard came 
many a well-bred, clean-living gentleman whose very 
look strengthened and refreshed him: he saw pleasant 
family parties starting off by coach; merry schoolboys 
on their way to or returning from school, with loving, 
anxious mothers, refined and ladylike and good, to see 
them off or to welcome them home with warm embraces. 
Crusty, warm-hearted old humorists, too, with sharp 
words and wry faces and kind deeds even for horses 
and under-ostlers, he met; into the coaching yard came 
all sorts and conditions of men, a ceaseless ebb and 
flow of all that was rich and interesting and strange 
and admirable and detestable and vile in the human race. 
Now, his sole intercourse was with the one type, the 
unintellectual, material-minded, and often brutal sport- 


54 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

ing man. And he was no longer in the way of receiv- 
ing consolation from feminine intercourse. While in 
training for a fight he was kept rigorously from the 
most distant sight of a petticoat, and when his liberty 
was allowed him he did not know where to turn. His 
old acquaintances were out of reach and far away; and 
after one or two attempts his pride revolted from going 
in search of — of what? A venal love was not what 
he wanted. He sickened at the thought of becoming 
a corrupter of innocence, a seducer as his father had 
been. He wanted the women to make the advances, 
as in fact they had always done before; but now in 
his exclusively male surroundings they had little chance 
of finding him out. In truth, it was not love at all he 
wanted, only sympathy and tenderness, and to be listened 
to when he talked about himself; but he knew of only 
one sort of friendship between man and woman. And 
then his prospects of freeing himself from his servitude 
seemed remote and unattainable. He was as yet only 
twenty, and no match for the full-grown men of his 
profession; he had hardly done growing in height, and 
had not nearly attained his full breadth and weight. 
He had been successful in several sparring-matches; his 
great agility and lightness of build stood him in good 
stead so far; but it would be long before he could 
challenge and conquer one of the heroes of the ring, 
and begin to lay in that fortune of golden guineas which 
was to set him free. There was not much money to 
be made by sparring-matches; gentlemen did not care 
to stake high on such child's play. As for his forty 
pounds a year, it did not go far considering that he was 
expected to dress like a gentleman and had at times to 
make a splendid appearance when Lord Combleigh 
wanted him to show off before some great personage, 
perhaps the Prince of Wales; and also it was impossible 
to live in a sporting fraternity without betting freely; 


A CHAPTER OF LOW LIFE 


55 


and though he occasionally won by these means, he, 
like other people, found that on the whole he lost more 
than he gained. He had learnt to loathe the prize-ring 
and all its works with deadly loathing before he had 
been with Lord Combleigh two years. He dimly felt, 
though he did not concern himself much with the work- 
ings of his mind, that his character was deteriorating 
in this slavery. Certainly his body might as well have 
worn chains as be at the beck and call of any one who 
wanted him to fight. And then Lord Combleigh took 
him down to Brighton, where the Prince of Wales had 
a young fellow named Gully whom he backed against 
North; and there, while walking on the Steine with his 
patron. Will saw a sight that took his breath away and 
made his blood run fire and ice at the same time — the 
loveliest young girl surely that ever walked the earth, 
with all the beauty and all the virtues of the whole 
angelic host evident in her countenance — and when she 
actually raised her eyes and he received her lovely, 
modest glance, overbrimming with kindness and sweet- 
ness, full in his own, the blood rushed to his face and 
his whole soul fell down in tumultuous rapture of sur- 
render at her feet. In short, at the first glance Will 
North had of Susan Marny, he fell head over ears in 
love with her. And if he had hated the prize-ring 
and pugilism before, his destestation was now increased 
tenfold. He had nothing but vile associations and sor- 
did prospects to offer her, and longed to lay before her 
all that was worthiest, noblest, loveliest in the world: 
nay, the very world itself was exalted by her existence, 
and consecrated by her presence, life assumed higher 
and diviner meanings. He haunted the Steine where 
she walked, and lay in wait to catch a glance from her 
beautiful eyes. He found out where she lived, and all 
his thoughts were concentrated on that spot. He dis- 
covered that she sometimes walked in the garden in the 


56 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

eveningj and night after night he posted himself just 
outside the hedge, to undergo pangs of rapture when he 
saw her, and if she did not come, agonies of longing and 
despair which were hardly less sweet than the joy of 
seeing her. He could not tear himself away; and when 
he was able to slip from Evans, his trainer, and Black 
Jacob and the rest of Lord Combleigh’s sporting train, 
he would watch by the garden the whole night through, 
unconscious of time and weariness, his whole being 
glowing, thrilling, transfigured in the glory and ecstasy 
of his love. 


CHAPTER VI 


A CHAPTER OF HIGH LIFE 

Undeterred by Susan’s recent coolness, Mr. Armour 
and his inseparable companion Lord Combleigh came to 
call on Mrs. Friend. The manners of both gentlemen 
had undergone some improvement. Mrs. Friend, not- 
withstanding her gentle and retiring disposition, had a 
certain soft dignity about her which made itself felt; 
and there was no lady of higher rank present to be 
complimented with the exclusive tribute of their best 
behavior. 

‘‘How d’ye do^ Mrs. Friend? Your servant, ma’am. 
Miss Marny, your most devoted humble servant.” They 
bowed low. A few sentences of commonplace remark 
passed on the weather and topics of the day. Then said 
Mr. Armour with a would-be easy simper, “ It seems a 
trifle odd to me, d’ye know, to be paying calls in what 
is as I may say almost my own house.” 

“ You have resided here with your grandfather. Lord 
Mountstephen ? ” inquired Mrs. Friend. 

“ No,” drawled Mr. Armour, “ at least not since in- 
fency. My grandfather has not been to Brighton for 
the last twenty years, and the house has been let or 
shut up. I’m sure, for my part, I’m delighted to see 
it inhabited as it is now.” 

Mrs. Friend bowed. “ But it is a trifle queer,” he 
continued, “ to find my grandfather, whom I know so 
well, being his heir and all that, lending the house 
57 


58 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

to ladies whose connection with the family is quite un- 
known to me ; though I am sure it does us honor/’ 

“ I have never met Lord Mountstephen myself,” said 
Mrs. Friend. ‘‘ He is a friend of my husband’s. Their 
connection is probably political; Mr. Friend’s occupa- 
tions take him much into political circles.” 

Political — ah,” said the young man. But you know 
my grandfather doesn’t go in for politics. He is pre- 
cluded from ’em by his position on the Bench. Has 
Mr. Friend been acquainted with him long?” 

I really cannot tell you, sir.” 

‘‘ And the lovely Miss Susan, is she known to my 
grandfather? I shall have a crow to pluck with my 
revered ancestor if he has been keeping the knowledge 
of such a paragon from me.” 

'' No, Lord Mountstephen is quite unknown to both 
of us. I must refer you to Mr. Friend for all informa- 
tion about the connection ; or no doubt your grandfather 
himself could supply it.” 

Oh, ah, yes,” said Mr. Armour. ‘‘ And how do you 
like Brighton^ ma’am? Monstrous pretty little place, is 
it not? Have you been over the Prince’s new stables 
yet? They’ll be magnificent when finished.” 

''No, I have not seen them. I hear they are to be on 
a splendid scale.” 

"Oh, splendid; princely indeed. You must let me 
take you and Miss Susan one of these days to see 
them. I could drive you as easily as wishing in my 
phaeton; and you wouldn’t feel the least fatigue; ’pon 
my soul you wouldn’t.” 

" I am very much obliged to you, sir ; but I fear I am 
not equal to it.” 

" But you would entrust Miss Susan to my escort, 
surely ? ” 

" Miss Marny does not go out unaccompanied by me 
or by some equally responsible female friend, sir.” 


A CHAPTER OF HIGH LIFE 


59 


Come, you are too cruel ! You are damnation cruel, 
indeed. Oh, I beg your pardon ; shocking bad manners 
to swear before ladies. It’s a thing I can’t bear. But 
you will let me look forward to the pleasure later on 
when you are stronger? You are not leaving Brighton 
directly? After Mr. Friend’s return, perhaps, you would 
go ? When do you expect him ? ” 

‘‘ His movements are very uncertain,” said Mrs. 
Friend. 

‘‘ Still, within a fortnight ? Three weeks ? A 
month ? ” 

‘‘ I really cannot say, sir.” 

‘‘ I should really be uncommonly glad to meet Mr. 
Friend. I have a monstrous desire to make his acquaint- 
ance. I wish you would tell me when I might look 
forward to the pleasure, ma’am.” 

‘‘ It is not in my power to tell you, sir. I hear a party 
of you gentlemen spent the day at the camp at Hove 
yesterday. What did you think of the preparations for 
defense? ” 

‘‘ Admirable, ma’am, admirable. But it’s all pains 
thrown away; old Boney will never think of venturing 
over in the face of the reception we’ve prepared 
him.” . 

Perhaps if we were not so well prepared he would 
be the more ready to invade us,” said Mrs. Friend. 

'' I only wish he would ; we’d soon send him back 
faster than he came. We’d soon teach him what an 
Englishman’s made of. But no such luck; it’s all a 
bugbear of Pitt’s. Boney has far too much sense to 
invade us.” 

“ I earnestly hope you may be right,” said Mrs. Friend, 

for of all horrors, that of a foreign invasion seems to 
me the most terrible.” 

‘‘ Oh yes, terrible indeed. Still, every man of spirit 
must want to have a fling at old Boney.” 


6o THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

But think of the bloodshed, the devastated homes, 
the ruined lives ! 

Oh, ah, yes indeed, said Mr. Armour. ‘‘ But that's 
a female's point of view, ma'am. What we men look 
at is the glory." 

I trust you will be able to be sensible of the glory if 
it should ever be your fate to find yourself, young as 
you are, crippled for life by one of the accidents of 
war, Mr. Armour. A man who has lost a limb, or has 
been rendered a helpless invalid, has need of a very 
exalted notion both of glory and of duty to enable him 
still to sustain a manly part." 

Oh, ah, yes," said Mr. Armour uncomfortably. The 
image conjured up effectually silenced him. He sat a 
few minutes longer and then carried his friend away, 
who in the meantime had been staring at Susan. 

Outside the house his spirits rose again. 

‘‘ It’s a queer go, Charley," he said. I can’t for 

the life of me make out who they are. Wonder if 
my grandfather ever heard of 'em?" 

^‘Wonder if this Friend has any real existence?" 
said Lord Combleigh. 

‘‘ Why, as for that, he was going about with 'em a 
week ago. He was with them and Lady Anne Cra- 
ven at the Lewes review. Burly-looking fellow he 
seemed." 

Looked like a gentleman ? ” inquired his friend. 

‘‘ H'm, well, can't be sure of that. Might be one, 
you know. He was well dressed, but had no style about 
him." 

‘‘ Oh, they’re of no account, I dare swear," said Lord 
Combleigh. Anyhow, the girl is left pretty much to 
herself. Lady Anne is no protection, and that sickly 
little woman in there goes for nothing. She's yours, 
my boy." 

It's only too easy a game to be gratifying to a 


A CHAPTER OF HIGH LIFE 


6i 


fellow’s vanity,” said Mr. Armour. I oan’t see a 
difficulty in the way.” 

‘‘ Perhaps Lady Anne will kick up a row to oblige 
you; or Mrs. Fritz.,” suggested Lord Combleigh. 

‘‘ Let the old cat squall as much as she likes. As for 
Mrs. Fitz., what is it to her? The girl is nothing to 
her, nor to Lady Anne either. She has no one in the 
world to protect her.” 

‘‘ I say, if it should turn out that they have some 
claim on your grandfather, you may make it devlish hot 
for yourself,” said Lord Combleigh. 

Curse me if I care. I’ve run up a sufficiently long 
score with the old boy for a trifle more or less to make 
no difference. He doesn’t know I’m down here now. 
He can’t abide the Carlton House crew; he thinks I’m 
on the high-road to destruction, by Gad ! ” 

“ So you are, my boy, d — n my soul if you’re not. 
You’re going to the devil as fast as wine, women, and 
play will take you.” And the prospect seemed to afford 
the friends unmitigated amusement, judging from the 
laughter with which they greeted it. 

The experienced novel-reader must not, however, take 
the intentions of these young gentlemen too seriously. 
Their designs upon Susan were rather a tribute to their 
characters as high-spirited, dashing young men of 
fashion, genuine slap-up Corinthians,” than the result 
of deep-seated passion or steady determination. They 
possessed neither the character nor the will to make 
them really dangerous foes. 

Susan meanwhile was passing her days in the occupa- 
tion, undignified it must be confessed for a heroine, 
of surreptitious peeping after the object of her interest, 
the young prize-fighter North. He was often on the 
Steine with Lord Combleigh, Sir John Lade, or other 
sportsmen; and it was astonishing how frequently their 
glances happened to come into collision, which when- 


62 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

ever it occurred, had to her the violence of a shock. 
It was not without severe prickings of conscience, 
prompted by modesty or pride or discretion, that she 
indulged herself in her quest. But her romancing tend- 
ency carried the day; and though an undercurrent of 
chill common-sense bade her recognize the distance that 
lay between her fancies and the probable facts^ she still 
loved to depict him as a prince of the blood-royal of 
some distant country, or as an exiled champion of his 
country’s wrongs ; and as such showered upon him every 
virtue and attraction that imagination could suggest. 
But she never drew him as her suitor. Notwithstand- 
ing his obvious betrayal of the impression she had made 
on him, she did not venture to portray him either as 
enthralled by a deep passion for herself, or as raising 
her to a pinnacle in the eyes of the world by glorious 
proofs of his devotion. This was certainly to her credit, 
for of all the images that filled her fancy, her favorite 
was the romantically decorated and idealized one of 
herself. To enact in imagination the part of a heroine, 
to see herself in an arresting attitude in the middle of 
a thrilling situation^ was the dearest delight of her heart ; 
and that she resisted the opportunity given her by the 
introduction to her dreams of so striking a figure as 
her ideal hero, showed a respect for his individuality 
which, considering that her age was that which has 
earned the epithet of silly sixteen,” showed considera- 
ble delicacy; as well as what was perhaps a half-con- 
scious perception that the feeling he inspired was not 
one to be trifled with. 

But notwithstanding her avoidance of the topic of 
love, his image filled most of her waking thoughts. 
She found out that he watched for her in the garden 
at dusk; and night after night she would saunter down 
to the ragged privet hedge with the easiest carelessness 
in the world, and while taking observations of the moon 


A CHAPTER OF HIGH LIFE 63 

or the clouds or the bats, or any other equally absorb- 
ing object, would cast keen rapid glances in search of 
a tall form withdrawn into the shadow of a wall or 
escaping attention in a corner of the hedge. Her bed- 
room window overlooked the same end of the garden 
and a bit of unenclosed land adjoining the Steine; and 
when the moon gave sufficient light she would peep out 
after her candle was extinguished, and try to discover 
if he still kept his watch. 

Mrs. Friend had no suspicion of what was going on. 
She shrank from society, and made her health the ex- 
cuse for indulging her inclinations. She preferred to 
sit alone on the beach or in the garden while Susan was 
going about with her friends, the Misses Ord, or Lady 
Anne Craven. There was a deep and sincere love 
between Mrs. Friend and her adopted daughter, but 
no great confidence. Susan was a little repressed and 
chilled by her aunt’s religious fervor. It was an air 
she could not breathe; and the comfort of their religion 
was spoilt for her by the sense of strain imposed by 
her aunt’s high standard. Mrs. Friend never insisted 
on it in words or reproached Susan for her shortcom- 
ings, but nevertheless the girl shrank from confiding in 
her, and would sooner have died than confessed her 
favorite follies to her. Perhaps it would have been 
the same in any case. An awful distance was usually 
observed in those days between parents and children; 
confidence between old and young seems to be a modern 
growth. 

Nor did Lady Anne Craven perceive anything, who 
had greater opportunities of observing the state of 
affairs. That good lady had no attention to spare for 
vulgar objects like prize-fighters. Her eyes were en- 
grossed by the people of quality they saw on the Steine, 
whom she pointed out to Susan with full information 
on their family connections. “ There goes Lady Maria 


64 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Seymour,” she would say, ill-dressed as usual. She 
would be a handsome woman if she knew how to dress 
herself. Her sister. Lady Jane Daulby, was considered 
a great beauty five or six years ago, but she has quite 
gone off since her marriage. She married Sir Harry 
Daulby, you know, who was the hero of that scandal 
I told you about the other day.” Or, “ That is the 
Countess of Portarlington with her two remaining daugh- 
ters. She had six daughters, all plain, but she has 
married them all into the peerage except these two. 
They say she is trying to catch the young Duke of Staf- 
ford for Catherine, the younger of the two; and they 
do hint that she thinks of my cousin Tom Raby for 
the other. But he will not come into his title till his 
uncle dies, and he is likely to live many years yet; so I 
don’t know if my Lady Portarlington would think him 
good enough for her Eliza, though his fortune and pros- 
pects ought to make him a welcome suitor in any circle 
below Royalty.” 

This was perhaps said as a warning to Susan; but 
she was quite unconscious of its application. The 
thought of Mr. Raby as her suitor had not entered her 
head. She was a little pained by Lady Anne’s constant 
harping on genealogies and families, knowing nothing 
as she did of her own. She felt herself in modern 
phrase a parvenu, and of no account in these circles 
where every one had well-known connections. But 
when she owned as much to Lady Anne, she did her 
best to console her. ‘‘Never mind, my dear; family 
is not everything. You have fortune; and with that 
and your pretty face and manners you are sure to do 
well.” 

“I have fortune?” echoed Susan in astonishment. 

“ Oh yes ; your guardian — uncle, do you call him ? — 
told me he could give you a pretty little fortune if you 
married to his liking. Did you not know it? It is as 


A CHAPTER OF HIGH LIFE 65 

well I told you, then ; for it will give you a proper sense 
of your consequence. You must not throw yourself 
away, my dear. You ought to make a really good 
match; for it is only among the nobility, and among 
them nowadays only in families like the Howards and 
Cavendishes and Rabys, that birth is the indispensable 
passport to admission.'^ 


CHAPTER VII 


AN AWAKENING 

Mrs. Fitzherbert had taken a great fancy to Susan. 
She asked her to tea and to spend the evening ; and what 
with her invitations and Susan's friendship with the 
Misses Ord, the girl spent much of her time in Mrs. 
Fitzherbert’s house, notwithstanding Mrs. Friend's ef- 
forts to check the intimacy. She was a little consoled, 
however, by finding that Mrs. Creevey made no scruple 
of allowing her daughters to be there continually; and 
Mrs. Creevey was a lady of undoubted propriety. One 
great attraction to Susan was Mrs. Fitzherbert's library, 
of which she had made her free. Susan was a great 
reader; and Mrs. Friend, though a book-lover herself 
and highly educated for her day, had a very rigid idea 
of what was proper for a young girl to read. Mrs. 
Fitzherbert was far more indulgent; and in her library 
Susan reveled in novels, romances, plays and poems 
such as had never before come in her way. Often while 
Mrs. Friend imagined Susan walking on the Downs with 
the Misses Ord or taking tea with them at their lodg- 
ings, she was sitting in a corner of Mrs. Fitzherbert's 
library, buried deep in the pages of a book. 

Mrs. Fitzherbert, however, preferred the outward 
world. She took Susan excursions to points of interest 
in the neighborhood; to the race-course; to take tea at 
Preston and Rottingdean; to see tha strange cleft in 
the grey Sussex downs called the Devil's Dyke, and the 

66 


AN AWAKENING 67 

wonderful panorama of landscape spread out below the 
hill that overhangs it. One day a visit to the camp at 
Hove was proposed, and Mrs. Friend was prevailed on 
to join the party. It was larger than she had expected; 
and she was sorry indeed that she had not kept to her 
first refusal when she found that Mr. Fox was to be of 
the company, whpse name she dreaded even more on 
account of his reputation for loose life and morals than 
for his politics. She had never met him; and his ap- 
pearance did not reconcile her to his presence. He was 
a huge, corpulent man, with a gross, sensual face of a 
Jewish cast; slovenly and negligent in his attire. She 
thought him at her first glance odious and repulsive, and 
was surprised that the devil should not trouble to make 
his agents more attractive. But the chances of the day 
threw her into conversation with him; and she soon 
forgot his appearance in the simple friendliness and un- 
affected candor with which he talked. A great warm 
heart, earnest and sincere, was apparent in every word. 
She had never met a man so easy to talk to, so devoid 
of all stiffness, so readily interested and amused. Be- 
fore the end of the day she had ceased to consider him 
the agent of Satan; and if she recalled his reputed ex- 
cesses it was only to sigh over the power of the world 
and its fashions to soil the noblest natures. 

They saw the camp and the fortifications; they heard 
how all the coast from Harwich to Pevensey was studded 
with garrisons and Martello towers; how a ceaseless 
watch was kept for the first sight of the French sails; 
how on the other side of that blue^ dancing water the 
hostile forces were assembled at Boulogne, and the very 
boats for transporting them lay ready; how in the great 
game of chess the fleets of France and England were 
playing with the whole world for chess-board, a single 
false move might bring down the enemy in one night 
upon them. Some of the corupany narrated their plan 


68 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

for securing safety when the invasion took place. One 
would flee to Worcester, where the Queen and the crown 
jewels were to be sent; one would brave it out in Lon- 
don; another thought nothing safe nearer than Wales 
or Scotland. But the majority were skeptical of Na- 
poleon’s descent on England. Partly in opposition to 
the Tories, on whom being in office devolved the task 
of defending the country, and partly influenced by Fox’s 
strong love of France which made it difficult for him 
to dwell on the thought of danger from such a quarter, 
they scoffed at the idea of an invasion, talked of it as 
a Tory scare, and were inclined to laugh at the strenuous 
preparations of the camp. Mrs. Friend thought of 
Raby’s absorption in his Volunteers, and fancied that 
sober-minded young man more likely to be right than 
this frivolous crew. But on their return Mr. Fox be- 
gan to talk about the French nation. He described 
them and their national characteristics with such sym- 
pathy, liveliness, and force, that she found a new idea 
of them growing up in her mind. They were no longer 
to her a monstrous, threatening shadow devoid of all 
human features, but became a nation of living people 
like herself, with only sufficient difference from the 
English to make them an agreeable variety and an in- 
teresting study. Her feeling as to the invasion imper- 
ceptibly changed. It was no longer a machination of 
the devil they had to resist, a contest with the powers of 
darkness; but a most lamentable difference between two 
great nations, whose best profit had been in frienship 
and sympathetic study of each other, and whose warfare 
could only mean a loss to civilization and progress, as 
well as the huge waste of life, labor, and wealth in- 
volved on both sides. 

After dining with the officers they started homewards, 
arriving at Brighton about six o’clock. Mrs. Fitzherbert 
at the last moment had declined to join the party, and 


AN AWAKENING 


69 

every one behind the scenes understood that her sudden 
indisposition signified her repugnance to finding herself 
in company with Fox. She had, however, invited some 
of the party to pass the evening with her on their return ; 
and though Mrs. Friend felt herself unequal to it, she 
gave a ready consent to Susan’s joining Mrs. Creevey 
and her daughters there. After tea was over the elder 
ladies sat down with the gentlemen to cards, and the 
girls found themselves alone in the library, where Susan 
soon buried herself in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s romances. 
Her companions rallied her unsociableness, but the spell 
was too strong to be broken; and presently they pro- 
posed a stroll in the garden, and went out, leaving Susan 
alone. Perfectly happy in her solitude, no idea of being 
molested occurred to her. She read on undisturbed for 
half an hour, when the door opened and Lord Combleigh 
entered, accompanied as usual by his friend Mr. Armour. 
Susan was annoyed. She had grown to detest them both, 
and always tried to keep out of their way. She laid 
aside her book and rose to leave the room. 

What good fortune ! ” laughed Lord Combleigh on 
seeing her. Here’s the lovely Susan all alone. Armour ! 
Where are your guardian nymphs, sweet angel ? ” 

“ I will rejoin them, if you please, my lord,” said 
Susan, but Mr. Armour stood in front of the door. 
‘‘Will you please to let me pass, sir?” 

“ Let you pass ? Let go such an opportunity as this ? 
I should be mad, by Gad I should, my lovely one, to let 
you pass without paying for all your cruelty. Let me 
lead you to the sofa, so; no seat yourself, my angel; 
what do you fear from the most devoted of your slaves ? ” 
“ Let me go, sir ! ” cried Susan, beginning to lose her 
temper. 

“ Not till you have accounted for all your coldness and 
cruelty, you little tyrant. You have held me at arm’s 


70 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

length all this week. How can you treat with such 
severity a heart that's all your own? You must pay for 
it, sweet Susan; by Gad you must." 

Let me go ; how dare you hold me ? " cried Susan, 
struggling to tear herself away; but her efforts only 
provoked the derisive laughter of her tormentors. 

‘‘ What, you struggle ; you'd fight, would you, my 
lovely Susan? You'd use your claws? Nay then, we 
must restrain you a little while the penalty is exacted. 
Hold her hands, Combleigh ; how the minx fights ! " 

Susan was struggling with all her force; but the two 
odious men held her down. Armour clasping her round 
the waist, while Lord Combleigh held her arms. 

‘'Now then. Armour, now's your chance!" he cried. 
“ Kiss her 1 kiss her while she's at your mercy ; — by 

G , how the jade fights!" And leaning over her 

with all his weight, or her frantic struggles might have 
freed her yet. Armour covered her face with kisses, and 
then with horrid laughter forced up her head to bury 
his hot face in her neck. “ Come, come, Armour, it's 
my turn now," remonstrated Lord Combleigh, as he saw 
his friend pulling at her neckerchief. Susan fought with 
the strength of despair, — when the door opened and 
Mrs. Fitzherbert appeared. 

“ Gentlemen ! " she exclaimed, with unintentional 
irony. The two men let Susan go, and stood looking 
abjectly foolish. 

“ Beneath my roof, gentlemen ! Is this how you treat 
a protegee of my own — you dare to insult me like this? 
There is the door, sirs ; go ; and never venture to pass the 
threshold again of the house whose hospitality you have 
outraged ! " 

They did not venture on a word. Like beaten curs 
with tails between their legs they slunk out. As soon as 
they were gone Susan burst into tears. Mrs. Fitzherbert 
took her in her arms. 


AN AWAKENING 


71 


‘‘ My poor, poor child ! ” she cried. “ Forgive me that 
I have exposed you to this. 1 did not know you were 
alone. I thought till this moment you were in the 
garden with the Misses Ord.” 

They went to the garden, and I stayed here reading,’’ 
sobbed Susan. ‘‘ Was it wrong of me?” 

‘‘Wrong? No, my poor innocent; but I would not 
have suffered it if I had known. As soon as the Misses 
Ord came in from the garden I came in search of you. 
But cheer up, sweet one; there is no harm done.” 

“ Let me go home ! ” entreated Susan, quite unable to 
control her tears. 

“Yes, my dear, as soon as you have recovered your- 
self a little. Come upstairs with me to my chamber. 
Poor child, you have been terribly shaken.” 

Susan would not quit Mrs. Fitzherbert’s arm; she 
was trembling from head to foot. The lady took her 
upstairs, and rang for her maid to bring a glass of wine. 
She bathed her face with her own hands, made her lie 
down on the sofa, and did all she could to soothe her. 
The wine helped Susan to restrain her sobs, but she still 
begged to go home; so Mrs. Fitzherbert ordered her 
carriage — for though the houses were only separated by 
the length of the Steine, she did not think the girl fit to 
walk even that distance — and promised she would herself 
accompany her and make all explanations to Mrs. Friend. 
She did so ; she was as kind as possible on the way ; and 
poor Susan was dismissed to go to bed under Betty’s 
motherly care while the explanations were made. The 
interview was rather a long one ; so many excuses, apolo- 
gies, explanations and praises of Susan had to be made. 
Mrs. Friend thanked Mrs. Fitzherbert very warmly for 
her kindness to her niece, but intimated gently that she 
had better cease to visit at her house; and Mrs. Fitz- 
herbert, though she deprecated the necessity and assured 
Mrs. Friend there was not the slightest danger of a 


72 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

repetition of the offense, was obliged to submit to the 
decision. 

Susan passed a sleepless night. She came home shaken 
and trembling; thrilling with impotent fury against her 
insulters. But after sympathy and kindness and rest 
had a little restored her, when the stillness and safety of 
her bed had begun to calm her nerves, another aspect of 
the matter struck envenomed fangs into her and kept her 
writhing and tormented through the night. There was 
something about the attack which was entirely strange 
to her. It showed a new side to the admiration and 
praises of men, a side obscure and revolting which she 
shrank from understanding, yet which she could not 
escape. All sorts of fragmentary bits of information. 
Lady Anne’s hints and mysteries, things she had seen 
or read, came crowding to mind with fresh significance, 
and fell into order under this lurid light. She had got 
a key which unlocked a side of life that had been closed 
to her. She longed, she tried to refuse to open it, but 
the door swung open before her. Shuddering she per- 
ceived the extent of the new domain, and how far it 
transformed the hitherto familiar aspect of her world. 
She longed to close her eyes, to creep back into ignorance ; 
but something told her that the thing was inevitable; 
that it was impossible for her to become a child again. 

And then a new thought struck her; a recollection of 
her dream hero, of the silent watcher at the garden 
hedge, the owner of the glance that kindled fire in her 
heart. Many times already had she hidden her burning 
face in the pillow, and shrunk under the sheets even from 
the unseeing darkness; at this thought she wound the 
sheets tightly over her head, and lay gasping and 
trembling, frightened at the strength of the emotion that 
seized her, terrified by the audacities of her mind. But 
though she trembled and lay in terror of herself, the 
horror of the new prospect was strangely modified. A 


AN AWAKENING 


73 


vision of manly nobility and chivalry appeared to her, 
in the strength of which all that was revolting became 
beautiful, all that was terrible, helpful and sweet. Where 
perfect trust and love existed, Susan saw that even these 
strange^ apparently degrading passions of men and 
women became exalted and holy, a help and a strength 
rather than an offense. 

Calmed and awed by these reflections, she inquired of 
herself if she were willing to acknowledge she had already 
placed her whole future in the power of a stranger, and a 
stranger of whom she knew nothing. She realized the 
slight hold her fancies had on the actual fact. She ad- 
mitted that young North the prizefighter (that he was in 
the service of Lord Combleigh was surely almost enough 
to condem him?) might probably be a very different 
person to the exiled scion of a noble house her imagina- 
tion loved to paint. Never, she resolved, would she give 
her love to anyone unworthy ; to anyone who in chivalry, 
constancy and tenderness did not equal her ideal. She 
would be very circumspect, very discreet. ‘‘ But,” she 
conceded to herself, ‘‘ supposing him to be as superior in 
virtues as he is in appearance to all around him ; suppos- 
ing him to be really all I have dreamt him — then, prize- 
fighter though he may be, I ask no more ; here and now, 
low-born and penniless as he is, I am his, and his only.” 

The day was breaking, and the gray light of dawn 
filled the room. Susan got up, went to the window and 
drew aside the blind. On the further side of the garden 
hedge, where it was lowest — there he stood, gazing up 
at the house. Her heart throbbed. She waited, peering 
from behind the blind, till she could be quite sure her 
eyes had made no mistake in the dim light. Then she 
retired from the window, and sank down at the bedside 
on her knees. 


CHAPTER VIII 


RIVAL WOOINGS 

Susan was spending an evening at Lady Anne’s. 
Jenny had attended her there and waited to accompany 
her home, and Thomas the footman arrived at eleven 
o’clock to guard the two females on their return. The 
protection seemed adequate to all emergencies; and they 
set out, Susan holding to Jenny’s arm and Thomas walk- 
ing a few steps behind, cane in hand. They passed the 
Pavilion in safety; but just as they reached the Castle 
Tavern the door opened and six or eight gentlemen, very 
drunk, reeled out. The light from the doorway streamed 
straight upon Susan and her escort. One of the party 
set up a loud ‘‘ Whoo-op ! ” and they all started in pur- 
suit with shouts and oaths and drunken laughter. Jenny 
screamed, shook off Susan’s hand, and ran away shriek- 
ing. Her flight attracted the enemy’s attention, and two 
of them pursued her mimicking her cries, so that wild 
with fright the silly girl turned back and ran towards the 
town instead of home. The footman seized Susan and 
hurried her along; but their pursuers overtook them, 
and he was obliged to drop her arm and turn to defend 
himself. ‘‘Run, miss! Run for your life!” he called 
out to her. “ It isn’t far; I’ll keep them in play.” 

Susan ran ; but there were more assailants than Thomas 
could engage ; Armour and another man slipped past him 
and were just upon her. But so was a third pursuer; 

74 


RIVAL WOOINGS 


75 


and just as the foremost stretched out his arm to seize 
her he caught him up and with one blow sent him spin- 
ning to the ground. Susan took a rapid glance, and her 
heart bounded with an assurance of safety; it was her 
ideal hero who had come to her rescue. She could not 
wait to see what happened. Another man was still in 
chase; breathless she ran on until she reached Lord 
Mountstephen’s gate ; then throwing it to behind her she 
looked round from its shelter to see her champion's 
success. He was struggling with a tall, powerful man; 
and then her fears rekindled as she saw the one North 
had thrown, on his feet again and breaking through the 
garden fence after her. It was Armour. She screamed ; 
North threw off his antagonist with a mighty effort 
and sprang over the gate to her assistance. He caught 
her assailant just as he was about to grasp her; Susan 
pounded at the door knocker with all her force. There 
was a violent tussle; she saw a sword flash; North re- 
coiled with an oath of pain and fury, and again Armour 
sprang at Susan. But her defender caught him round 
the body and hurled him down the steps, just as the door 
opened, and overbalanced by his effort he fell on the 
top of Susan into the hall. 

At this unceremonious entrance all the household came 
running to the spot; and Mrs. Friend's horrified gaze 
perceived Susan struggling for breath on a chair^ and an 
unknown young man standing beside her, ghastly pale 
and smiling feebly, with the blood streaming from his 
shoulder. O Aunt ! " gasped Susan. “ He has saved 
me — he has saved me — and he's hurt ! " 

She explained what had happened in a few incoherent 
sentences. Mrs. Friend warmly thanked her defender, 
and begged him to sit down and let his wound be looked 
to. He seemed bewildered and almost incapable of move- 
ment. A servant was bidden to help him into the dining 
parlor, but no sooner had he reached it and was placed 


76 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

in a chair than he fainted away. The ladies were in the 
greatest agitation. A surgeon was sent for, who dressed 
the wound and declared that it was not serious, but 
advised that the sufferer should be put to bed. Mrs. 
Friend was eager to place the whole house at the disposal 
of one who had done Susan such service ; so a room was 
prepared and the stranger taken upstairs, to become as 
it proved an inmate of the house for the remainder of 
their stay in Brighton. 

It was very late before the household went to bed that 
night. Thomas the footman arrived before the surgeon 
had been fetched, bearing a broken head as his share in 
the night's adventures. Jenny did not appear till past 
one o'clock, having been chased, according to her own 
account, up and down every street and lane in Brighton ; 
but she suffered nothing worse than the fright, and a 
reprimand for leaving her young lady in such a predica- 
ment. Thomas on the other hand received five guineas 
for his gallant defense, a sum for which he thought a 
broken head cheap. 

North's wound, though not dangerous, occasioned a 
good deal of fever; and for a day or two he was not 
allowed or even able to talk. But when he began to 
recover Mrs. Friend sat often in his room and had a 
great deal of conversation with him, and began to feel 
a strong interest in him. She found him very amiable 
and modest, and of a refined disposition. His history 
too, which he soon confided to her, pleaded powerfully 
in his favor. To North it was an intense comfort to 
unbosom himself to a sympathetic and cultivated listener, 
who received all he said with understanding kindness, 
and who gave him wise and gentle advice and inspiring 
encouragement. He told her almost everything of his 
past, though there were some things on which he could 
touch only in general terms; but she knew enough of 
the world to read between the lines. 


RIVAL WOOINGS 


77 


Nor did he confess his love for Susan. He felt it a 
presumption to dream of raising his eyes to her; and 
though, far from striving to conquer his passion, he 
nourished it as much as he could and sought every 
opportunity of increasing it, yet he believed it doomed 
to failure, and never ventured to hope that Susan could 
return it. While confined to his room there was not 
much danger of a betrayal; but when once the fever 
had left him his convalescence was rapid. The wound 
healed quickly and thoroughly; and the apothecary soon 
advised a change of scene. 

At this juncture Friend returned. He said little, but 
looked very grim at the relation of Mr. Armour’s con- 
duct. ‘‘ How in the world comes he to be here ? ” he 
asked. 

“ Susan met him at Mrs. Fitzherbert’s ; I fear the 
company there is not always choice. I wish I had never 
allowed her to enter those doors ! ” 

“ Oh well, my love, there’s no harm done,” said Friend. 

I’ll go and have a talk with Master Evelyn.” His 
brow wore the look at which his wife trembled. He 
never said much when he was displeased, but his anger 
was perhaps the more formidable for its restraint; not 
that he was ever angry with her, save for the quickly 
passing irritation of an occasional moment — and yet she 
dreaded it. She studied his looks and tones with a 
scrutiny searching as a hovering sea-gull gives the waves. 
In her relations with her husband, where there was so 
much love yet so little confidence, these signs were the 
principal guide to her behavior. 

‘‘ My dearest life, you are not thinking of calling him 
out?” she cried in terror. 

‘‘I call out Master Evelyn Armour? Not I, Polly; 
don’t distress yourself, little woman. I think I can 
bring the young gentleman to his senses without taking 
such a step as that.” 


78 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

You can always do what you choose with everyone, 
I know,'' said Mrs. Friend. ‘‘ But how you will bring 
that young man to a sense of what he has done " 

“ Well, Polly, you shall see. What will you bet that he 
does not send Susan the most ample apology before to- 
morrow morning ? " 

‘‘ You know I would not bet, my love. If you say he 
will, I suppose it will be so. I don't know how you 
do it, but I know you always get your will of everyone." 

Well, Polly, you wait and see." He went out. Be- 
fore night a servant of Mr. Armour's arrived bearing a 
note to Mrs. Friend. It contained an ample, almost a 
servile apology for his conduct to Susan. ‘‘ Well, 
my dear, what did I tell you?" said Friend trium- 
phantly. 

He paid a visit to North; but his wife was rather 
disappointed that he showed no enthusiasm in his praise. 
‘‘ He seems a decent sort of young chap," was all he said. 

How long is he to stay here, my dear ? " 

‘‘ That is for you to decide, my love. The poor fellow 
has no employment; he is utterly destitute, in fact, for 
of course he can never return to Lord Combleigh's service 
now. And indeed I should be very sorry if he did; he 
is worthy of better hings than that." 

‘‘ Oh, well, we won't turn him out till he is strong 
again. The apothecary said he might come downstairs 
tomorrow, did he not ? " 

So North came downstairs, and tasted the felicity of 
sitting in the same room as Susan and feasting his eyes 
on her, till Mrs. Friend observed it and began to draw 
conclusions. 

But that very afternoon North w^as thrown into the 
background of her thoughts by the reappearance of Mr. 
Raby; and the warmth with which he greeted Susan 
showed that his intentions, if he had nourished any, had 
not dwindled during his absence. I have come back, 


RIVAL WOOINGS 


79 


Miss Marny, as I said I should/’ he said to her. Upon 
my soul I don’t know how I managed to stay away so 
long.” And he retained her hand while he said it, look- 
ing at her with such an expression as would have made 
Lady Anne feel, had she been present, that her next 
interference would come too late. From Mr. Raby the 
words were almost as good as a proposal. Susan felt 
very uncomfortable. She began to suspect that Mr. 
Raby might be in love with her. He hardly took his 
eyes off her during his visit; and when he left, Mrs. 
Friend saw plainly that his suit must be attended to 
before she could consider the case of poor Will North. 

Mr. Raby had in fact come back violently in love. 
He had hoped that absence might weaken the force of 
an attraction to which he was not altogether willing to 
succumb ; but instead he found that the image of Susan 
interfered with his work, his interests, and everything 
he did; that he could get no peace for thinking of her, 
and finally that his whole happiness depended on obtain- 
ing her for his wife. With this purpose he returned to 
Brighton; and having seen the object of his affections 
and found that his uneasiness was only increased till he 
were sure of winning her, he lost no time in making his 
proposals to Friend. 

He called upon him in solemn state the next morning. 

‘‘ I have requested the favor of a private interview, 
Mr. Friend,” he said, '' in order to lay before you pro- 
posals very dear to my heart, and which I venture to 
hope may not be altogether displeasing to you. I have 
formed an affection, a very strong affection, for your 
adopted daughter. Miss Marny; and though in the posi- 
tion in which I stand I am not entirely a free agent in 
the matter of marriage, my family having claims upon 
me which I cannot slight, I hope — I trust it may be 
found that there is nothing irreconciliable between these 
claims and Miss Marny’s position; in short, that my 


8o THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

duty to my family and my own happiness may be 
attained together/’ 

You allude to Miss Marny’s fortune, I suppose,” said 
Friend. ‘‘ I quite understand that you would not think 
yourself justified in seeking a penniless bride. And for 
my part, I should not like my girl to enter so respectable 
a family as yours without a fortune worth its acceptance. 
I own I should be very much gratified by an alliance with 
you, sir ; and to secure it I am prepared to make sacrifices 
which I should hesitate at in another case. But I am not 
a rich man, and I am not able to do as much for Susan 
as I should like. I can, however, promise you twenty 
thousand pounds with her, if that will make her worth 
your taking.” 

It is a handsome sum, sir ; but let me say that 
fortune, though I do not pretend to overlook it entirely, 
was far from being in my mind when I made my pro- 
posals. Your generosity exceeds my expectations. But 
it was not entirely to fortune that I alluded. I was think- 
ing of the question of birth.” 

‘‘ Oh, of birth,” said Friend dryly. “ Well, Mr. Raby, 
Susan’s family perished stock and branch in the Revolu- 
tion. She is of French descent; she is of the old de 
Marny family. They had good blood in their veins ; her 
maternal grandmother was a Conde. But the last de 
Marny took the popular side in the Revolution, joined 
the Girondist faction, and perished with them. There is 
not one of the family but Susan left alive. I received 
her a child of four from her dying mother. We have 
Anglicized the name and brought her up as our own; 
but her real name is Suzanne de Marny.” 

Indeed. I am rejoiced to hear she is of such good 
family: I am relieved, indeed. You can understand 
that I should have hesitated had there been any reason 
to suppose her of absolutely base extraction; or had 
there been any scandal or stain on her birth ; but you have 


RIVAL WOOINGS 


8i 


set my mind entirely at rest. I wonder you have kept 
the facts so private.’’ 

I don’t know that we have. I at least have made no 
attempt to keep them private; but Mrs. Friend doesn’t 
like the French connection, nor the part the family took 
in the Revolution. She’d have the girl wholly an Eng- 
lishwoman. And she’s brought her up like one; you’ll 
find she’s been well trained, Mr. Raby.” 

‘‘ Mr. Friend, I am delighted; I am overjoyed. I can 
have no scruples now to make my proposals in form for 
the hand of your lovely ward. Miss de Marny. I am, 
as I suppose you are aware, the heir-presumptive of my 
uncle the Earl of Sandown; and he, though not long 
past middle age^ is not likely to marry. I also possess 
a moderate fortune inherited from my mother. I shall 
have pleasure in making handsome settlements upon Miss 
de Marny; I do not think we shall be likely to disagree 
about terms.” 

“ Our lawyers will discuss them ; and as you say, I don’t 
think we are likely to disagree. Well, Mr. Raby, it gives 
me the greatest pleasure to sanction your addressses. I 
hope with all my heart you’ll be successful; for you 
must know it lies with yourself to get Susan’s consent. 
I don’t pretend to a father’s authority to dispose of her 
hand.” 

‘‘Your favor, sir, and influence is all that I ask. I 
hope that with a lady so young as Miss de Marny I need 
not fear her affections are already engaged ; and I trust 
that a passion so fervent as mine will not fail in time to 
make some impression on her heart, sensible though I am 
that my manners and interests are not of the sort best 
adapted to win a lady’s favor. But I trust my unfeigned 
desire to please her will produce some result.” 

“ Not a doubt of it, sir. Let her see that you love 
her^ and she’s bound to be touched. And if my good 


82 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

word can be of service, you may depend upon it. From 
the bottom of my heart I wish you success, Mr. Raby.’' 

No sooner had Mr. Raby taken his leave than Friend 
went in triumph to his wife. ‘‘ Well, my dear, he has 
proposed for her ! he exclaimed. 

Mrs. Friend had just been sitting with her patient, 
and her mind was engrossed with him. ‘‘Who? Not 
William North she asked, taken by surprise. 

“Young North the prizefighter? Why, no; what put 
such a thing into your head, Polly? Do you suspect 
him of a tenderness for Susan ? ’’ 

Mrs. Friend faltered. “ Well, I have fancied — but I 
have no right to speak. Only he looks at her as if he 
worshiped the very ground she treads on.’’ 

“ Does he indeed? No, my dear; I mean Mr. Thomas 
Raby, the future Earl of Sandown. What d’you think 
of this, Polly?” 

“ My dear, I think far more about Mr. Raby’s char- 
acter and disposition than his prospects. I could indeed 
have wished him to be of humbler station.” 

“ Could you, forsooth? Hang all these women, they’re 
never contented. And aren’t you satisfied with his char- 
acter and disposition, Polly?” 

“ I think Susan might be happy with him. I believe 
him to be well principled and upright, and sincerely 
attached to her.” 

“Well, and isn’t that enough? What more does the 
woman want? A coronet, and rolling in wealth, and 
possessing all the best Tory interest: — why, my dear, a 
duke could ask for no more from a son-in-law! I’ve 
played my cards well this time, little woman. Give 
me a kiss and wish me joy! ” 

“I wish you joy with all my heart, dearest; and 
Susan too ; but it is not done yet. Susan’s heart has still 
to be won.” 

“ Oh, Susan’s heart — ^ — ! What girl can stand out 


RIVAL WOOINGS 


83 

against a wooer who’s in earnest ? And this young Raby 
is really deeply in love with her, though he’s a steady 
fellow and takes the fever temperately. He’d never 
have taken her if I had not given him a good account 
of her family. Ha, ha, ha ! ” He laughed with intense 
delight. 

My love, I trust it was a true one,” said his wife 
anxiously. 

“ Oh, yes^ all true; true as Gospel, Polly,” said Friend, 
still chuckling. ‘‘ Have no fear, my love ; I know the 
value of truth; there’s no danger of being found out as 
long as one sticks to facts ; hey, Polly ? — But come ; will 
you tell Susan, or shall we let the impatient lover tell 
his own story ? ” 

I think he would have the best chance if we left him 
to plead his own cause. Susan is romantic; she is not 
the girl to like him the better for having him offered to 
her by her guardians.” 

‘‘ You are right, little woman, I have no doubt. But 
if you can put in a word to incline her in his favor, you 
will, won’t you ? ” 

'' Friend— husband,” said his wife anxiously. ** Tell 
me, before I promise, if all is right. You are not 
planning any deceit — any treachery? You are really 
seeking Susan’s happiness — and Mr. Raby’s ? ” 

'‘To be sure I am, my love; and my own profit and 
advancement at the same time. You don’t object to 
that, I hope? There’s no harm in a man’s advancing 
himself through his daughter’s marriage when it’s one 
likely to secure her happiness, is there? That’s all the 
treachery I’m planning at present, my love.” 

" Well, dear, then I will do what I can to forward 
the match,” said Mrs. Friend with a sigh; and I trust 
it will be for the happiness of all of us.” 

" That’s my good little woman,” said Friend. " Give 
me a kiss, Polly. This is a great day for me. Don’t 


84 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

doubt but that it will be for the happiness of all of us, 
my dear.’’ 

Mrs. Friend kissed him, but still she doubted. She 
sought an opportunity of letting fall a few words of 
praise of Mr. Raby; not enough to excite Susan’s sus- 
picions or to set her against him in pique, but just to 
establish a feeling of confidence in him. She wished the 
girl to understand the difference between him and such 
men as Armour. 

‘‘ We have not been entirely fortunate in our Brighton 
acquaintances,” she said. You have seen something of 
the worst of the world, Susan; a lesson I could have 
wished you spare at your age; but I think some of our 
friends may be depended on. I believe Mr. Raby, for 
instance, to be thoroughly honest and upright, and that 
no one who trusts him will repent it. This is a good 
deal to say for a man, Susan.” 

''Yes, indeed, aunt,” murmured Susan. 

" And he is a true gentleman ; and that, as you have 
seen, is not always the case with those who can call 
themselves gentlemen by birth. But how little mere 
birth weighs against conduct ! Put such a man as Lord 
Combleigh into the scale with his despised follower, 
William North, and how far the servant outweighs the 
master ! ” 

Mrs. Friend, intent on drawing her moral, did not 
perceive the mischief she was doing. Susan in a small 
meek voice and with a most innocent air inquired, 
" Do you believe Mr. North is to be trusted too, 
aunt ? ” 

She hesitated a moment^ wondering if she had been 
indiscreet. But she was too truthful not to reply. 

"Yes, Susan; I take him too for an honest, well 
intentioned young man. But his sphere of life puts him 
in a very different position to the men we were speaking 
of, Lord Combleigh and Mr. Raby.” 


RIVAL WOOINGS 


85 


be sure it does/^ assented Susan meekly. But 
inwardly she was triumphing. She cared nothing for 
spheres of life. She had her aunt’s authority for think- 
ing highly of North; she could now let her fancy play 
round him as she liked. 


CHAPTER IX 


THE RETURN TO TOWN 

The visit to Brighton was drawing to an end. Mr. 
Raby had to return to Parliament in a few days' time, 
and Friend did not want at this juncture to put any 
separation between him and Susan. He told his wife 
that they must move into a different quarter of the town, 
that the little house in Coram Street was by no means 
suitable to Susan's new prospects; and he went up to 
find and take one. He soon wrote to say that he had 
secured a very good house in Harley Street, and that 
all should be ready for them to return there. As soon 
as this was arranged he came back to escort them home. 

In the meantime Mr. Raby had effected his propsal to 
Susan, but met with a decided though gentle negative. 
He was not much cast down, for confident in his business 
abilities though he was, he distrusted his powers of love- 
making, and looked for success to his perseverance rather 
than to his first attack. Friend on his return encour- 
aged him. ‘‘ You see, sir^ Miss Marny is very young, 
and has never looked on you in the light of a suitor till 
now. Girls of that age always have their head full of 
fancies ; no doubt she has pictured a different style of 
wooer to herself; but persevere; make her feel that you 
prize her beyond everything, and she can't fail to be 
moved. A real lover will always outweigh a fancied one 
in the long run." 

His words would probably have been verified if the 
86 


THE RETURN TO TOWN 87 

ideal lover himself had not happened to be upon the 
scene; but as this was the case poor Mr. Raby had little 
chance. North was desperately bashful and conscious in 
her presence, and hardly dared address her ; but his eyes 
followed her always with unutterable devotion, and she 
would not have been woman if she had not been aware 
of it. If they did not converse, yet they held a great 
deal of intercourse with their looks. Here Susan had 
the advantage; for she, trembling at her own daring, 
ventured to translate the language of his eyes pretty 
accurately, but he was entirely blind to the meaning of 
hers. Friend meanwhile watched them narrowly, and 
saw plainly enough the state of his feelings. Susan, who 
used her utmost art to conceal hers, was not so easy to 
read; and blinded by his wishes in Raby’s favor, he did 
not perceive how she inclined. North was now down- 
stairs and taking his meals with them, though he could 
not yet move his arm freely and still required help in 
dressing. He stood by now on intimate terms with all 
the household; and Friend, turning over many plans in 
his head, conceived an idea of serving him and his own 
interests at the same time. Mr. Raby had happened to 
mention his cousin, Admiral Middleton, who had suc- 
ceeded Lord Melville as First Lord of the Admiralty, 
and had been raise to the peerage as Lord Barham. 

I wonder, Raby, whether you could make use of your 
influence with Lord Barham to get a post in the Ad- 
miralty Office for this young protege of mine, William 
North, the young fellow who so courageously came to 
Susan's assistance the night she was attacked on the 
Steine by a gang of drunken ruffians. He is out of em- 
ployment, and does not know what to turn to. He is 
well educated and a gentlemanlike young fellow ; he was 
brought up at Westminster School. You would be put- 
ting me under a great obligation if you would; I feel 
bound to do something for him." 


88 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

'' Certainly, sir ; I am as much interested as yourself 
in seeing that his gallantry does not pass unrewarded. 
I suppose there is no doubt he is competent to fulfil a 
clerk’s duties? The Admiralty Office would be a suit- 
able sphere for him ? ” 

‘‘ Just the very place of all others. A responsible and 
honorable employment, with a prospect of advance; oh, 
yes, that’s the place for him. Upon my word I shall 
be grateful to you if you can arrange it.” 

If my influence with my cousin can effect it, you may 
consider it done, sir. I am grateful to you, Mr. Friend, 
for putting me in the way of doing the young man a 
service.” 

And in a wonderfully short time Will North received 
an appointment to a clerkship in the Admiralty Office. 
How beautifully easy these things were in the good old 
days of influence and patronage! 

'' You must come and see us. North, when we’re all in 
town,” said Friend. We are not going to lose sight of 
you. We consider you quite as one of the family, you 
know; Mrs. Friend couldn’t bear to lose you after having 
nursed you all this while. Drop in and see us whenever 
you like; you’ll always find a welcome.” It may be 
imagined with what ecstasy North heard this. He was 
overwhelmed with gratitude, even more for the invitation 
than for the appointment, great as was his sense of 
obligation for that substantial service. 

All was now arranged for their departure. North 
was to journey with them to take up his new duties 
in London. Mr. Raby had gone up a few days pre- 
viously. Before his departure he had confided his matri- 
monial intentions to his cousin, whose disapproval was 
somewhat modified by hearing of the fortune Susan was 
to bring him, I had no idea Mr. Friend could be so 
liberal, my dear,” she said to Mrs. Friend; ''you have 
such simple tastes and live so quietly that I took you 


THE RETURN TO TOWN 


89 


for people of quite moderate means ; but it seems he’s 
a man of fortune after all. Twenty thousand pounds; 
and more, I have no doubt, at his death?” 

Mrs. Friend did not smile at the lady’s impertinence — 
she was incapable of indignation at it in any case — being 
overwhelmed with her astonishment. ‘‘ Twenty thousand 
pounds ! ” she exclaimed, thunderstruck. ‘‘ My dear 
Lady Anne ! It is not possible he should have promised 
her that ? ” 

'' Nonsense, my dear ; you don’t mean to say you didn’t 
know it? What curious creatures men are, to be sure! 
One would think Mr. Friend would have done his utmost 
to trumpet the knowledge of her fortune abroad, instead 
of keeping it so dark. But it’s the fact, I assure you; 
Thomas told me in the most positive manner that Mr. 
Friend had promised him twenty thousand pounds with 
Susan.” 

It was a mystery to Mrs. Friend, who did not know 
how her husband could be worth as many hundreds. 
She could say nothing to Lady Anne; but she returned 
to London and took up her abode in her new and splendid 
mansion with a sorely troubled mind. 

North now found himself in an entirely new world; 
where he would have been lost indeed but for the kindly 
help and companionship igiven [him by Friend. His 
duties, the class of men by whom he was surrounded 
and the subject filling their minds were all strange to 
him; and he was as nervous and uneasy as a timid boy 
on his first night at a new school. He went in terror 
of being dismissed from his employment for incompe- 
tence, of exposing his terrible knowledge of low life. 
He need not have been afraid. His attainments were 
quite equal to those of most of the young clerks of his 
standing ; and as for his knowledge of sporting circles, it 
would have made him the admiration and envy of the 
majority of his companions had he but allowed it to be 


90 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

visible. Seeing how lonely and diffident the lad seemed, 
Friend afforded him his companionship freely. No 
father could have taken more pains to encourage and 
support an only son; but there was no affectation of 
fatherliness about his manner; he treated Will frankly, 
as one man of the world another. And Will found that 
he had in him a guide, perhaps the most competent in 
England, to the labyrinth of political life to which he was 
now introduced. Friend knew everything and was at 
home everywhere. Without being a member of Parlia- 
ment himself or holding any post under Government, he 
had as intimate and accurate a knowledge of all that 
went on as if he had been closely concerned in the work- 
ings of the machine. From the movements of Napoleon 
down to the latest squib of Canning or rumor among 
the pamphleteers, he had the earliest information. He 
was acquainted with all the actors in public life, it 
seemed^ from the King on the throne down to the very 
printers’ devils who carried off the reports of the last 
debate in the House. He introduced Will to many polit- 
ical characters; to Mr. Hammond and Mr. Yorke, the 
Under-Secretaries of State ; to Mr. Whitbread, the 
wealthy Whig brewer who had led the attack on Lord 
Melville in the House ; to William Cobbett, not yet made 
famous by prosecution; and to many who were aiding 
the national struggle in obscure situations. Through him 
Will met Captain Wright, who had carried over the 
conspirators in Cadoudal’s plot against Napoleon and 
many a royal exile of France on errands of intrigue; 
M. Jean Peltier, the editor of the little news sheet 
UAmhigu, whose prosecution two years before for libel 
on the First Consul had raised so much stir; he seemed 
to have a large acquaintance among the army of Pitt’s 
agents, and those who were working, some for their 
private ends and some few, perhaps, out of patriotism, 
for the Third Coalition, for Europe, for England, or 


THE RETURN TO TOWN 


91 


against the common enemy of all, Napoleon. His knowl- 
edge was evidently exhaustive, yet his exact status or 
occupation remained a mystery. 

The Parliamentary people were in acute excitement — 
even if possible beyond their wont — over the blow to the 
Government given by the disgrace of Lord Melville ; and 
the Whigs, jubilant, declared that Pitt could never stand 
the shock, and that his fall was imminent. North had 
lately been in a Whig circle. Lord Combleigh was a loud 
admirer of Fox, as was to be expected of a would-be 
intimate of Carlton House; but Will took little interest 
in politics, and if he called himself a Whig it was without 
any deep conviction. Now, indeed, his knowledge of his 
late patron inclined him rather to range himself on the 
other side. He supposed Friend to be a Tory; at any 
rate he seemed on the best terms with the men in 
office, but he maintained great reserve about his opinions. 
In fact he did not concern himself much about Parlia- 
mentary politics; what chiefly engaged his attention was 
the active side of affairs. He took the kindliest interest 
in Will's work and gave him much useful advice, so that 
he formed the habit of going to him in all his difficulties 
and telling him everything of interest that passed. 
Friend encouraged him to apply himself to political 
affairs. ‘‘You musn't look to being a clerk all your 
life, my lad," he said. “You must get on, you know; 
make your value felt. Get the hang of things thoroughly, 
and then when you see an opportunity you can grasp it. 
Follow up the acquaintances you're making; they're use- 
ful men; they are men who are doing something. You 
never can tell where your chance may come from; keep 
hold of the threads." 

Will heard with enthusiastic acquiescence, and was 
prepared to consecrate himself to the task with almost 
religious zeal ; but he discovered gradually that religious 
zeal was not wanted. He was amazed to see how coolly 


92 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

most of the men around him took their work. The only 
spark of enthusiasm he discovered anywhere was that of 
hatred; one or two French emigrants who devoted them- 
selves to intrigues against the Emperor really seemed to 
be inspired with sentiments elevated or possibly degraded 
by disinterested passion. He looked to Friend for an 
example of how to bear himself, how to feel, in his new 
duties; but he could not quite understand his attitude. 
To all men he was the same ; easy, cheerful, open, and yet 
most reticent. He went everywhere and heard every- 
thing and said nothing, except at the right moment, 
when his words were few and very much to the point. 
Acquainted with everyone himself, he was really known 
to none. He had no friendships, no intimacfes; he be- 
longed to no club; he was a man of few affections, and 
admitted no one to his inmost thoughts, genial in temper 
and sociable in habit though he was. This was his 
nature as well as his professional custom. He admitted 
to Will that it was his business to know all and be 
known to none; to pass for a familar face and a figure 
standing for certain qualities such as reliability and 
secrecy, but no more; to excite no attention, above all 
by any appearance of mystery. Will did not quite un- 
derstand it. He preferred direct actions and results; 
he would have liked to distinguish himself and gain 
for his reward the good opinion and admiration of those 
he worked for. But all was so strange and bewildering 
to him in his new surroundings that he felt unable to 
criticize or even form an opinion; and certainly the 
more he saw of Friend the more he admired and revered 
him. The power of the man made itself felt; and his 
exceeding kindness, the frank goodwill and the considera- 
tion he habitually showed to the feelings all about him, 
would have won his affection on his account, if on 
Susan’s he had not been prepared to respect him. 

Friend cautioned Will against bringing any word of 


THE RETURN TO TOWN 


93 


business into the home circle. The two lives were to be 
absolutely distinct; and Will noticed how rigorously he 
himself kept them apart. No one of his public acquaint- 
ances was aware of the existence of Mrs. Friend, it 
seemed, unless since the recent visit to Brighton ; and the 
wife and daughter knew nothing whatever of his daily 
occupations. This, too, was a hard rule to Will North, 
who loved nothing better than talking about his own 
affairs when he could find a sympathetic listener. He 
had learned silence in the hardships and loneliness of his 
life; he was far too sensitive to rebuffs to give his con- 
fidence uninvited; but now that he had listeners whose 
greatest pleasure was to hear of all he did and thought, 
he found, it difficult to hold his tongue. But for some 
weeks he saw little of Mrs. Friend and Susan. He had 
been surprised when he found Friend devoting so much 
time to him, for at Brighton he had not taken much 
notice of him; it was to Mrs. Friend that he had looked 
for kindness and sympathy. But now the case was re- 
versed. He hardly knew how it was, but though Friend 
pressed him to come often to Harley Street and drop in 
when he liked, he did not seem able to accept as he 
longed to do. He was much engaged at his office, for 
one thing; and when he did go, the sight of Raby in 
close attendance on Susan drove him to the depths of 
despair. Friend had told him of the match that was 
in contemplation; and to see her the future bride of 
another was more than he could bear. 

Mr. Raby's suit, however, was making no progress. 
Susan was steady in her refusals; and though always 
gentle in her manner, for she found herself liking him 
more than she had thought possible, her determination 
against him began to make itself clear to her aunt, and 
she told her husband she feared he had no chance. But 
the wooer himself would not believe it; and Friend en- 
couraged him to persevere. 


94 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

Their style of life had undergone a change since the 
Brighton visit. Before that event they lived entirely to 
themselves; they had no friends, and went out nowhere 
but to church. But Lady Anne, on their leaving 
Brighton, had given them introductions; and since mov- 
ing to Harley Street one or two of their new neighbors 
had called on them ; so that though they had no large 
circle of acquaintance^ visitors were no longer unknown. 
But a knock at the door one evening when Friend was 
out was followed by the entrance of a stranger, a 
foreigner, who gave the name of M. Sauvignac and 
asked for Friend. 

Mrs. Friend was surprised. Such an event was un- 
precedented. Though she knew her husband had a large 
acquaintance, yet he never brought them to the house. 
She told the visitor that her husband was out, and hoped 
he would then leave; but he begged permission to await 
his return. He was an old colleague of Mr. Friend 
abroad, he said, and had come to England on business 
of the highest importance. He had missed him at their 
appointed meeting place, and had with great difficulty 
traced him to his private address. It was of the utmost 
consequence that they should meet ; and in truth he was 
not anxious, he said, to face the streets again; he had 
already run some chance of being mobbed. This might 
be true enough, Mrs. Friend was aware; for public 
feeling ran so high and hot against the French that if 
he had been recognized as one of that nation his pre- 
dicament might have been awkward. She felt she had 
no alternative but to ask him to stay and await her 
husband. 

M. Sauvignac was overwhelmed with gratitude. His 
manners were the pink of politness. His compliments 
to her and, discreetly veiled, to Susan, were models of 
the art. He talked much and entertainingly of French 
life and of adventures with her husband in France. It 


THE RETURN TO TOWN 


95 


was apparent that his visits there had been neither rare 
nor distant. And other information crept out. Mr. 
Friend speaks French like a native; just like a native,” 
said Sauvignac, whose own English was remarkably 
good. ‘"No one could know, no one could guess M. 
Henri Dubois to be an Englishman. You know Mr. 
Friend passes as Henri Dubois when he visits our 
country? It is his name over there: in our trade one 
has many names. All would think he was born a 
Frenchman. But he was educated as a boy partly in 
France, he tells me.” 

Susan’s interest flared up. A question was at the tip 
of her tongue, but it was repressed by a look from Mrs. 
Friend. M. Sauvignac seemed to perceive it was a 
dangerous topic, for he glided dexterously oif it and 
kept the conversation in impersonal channels until Friend 
returned. 

His wife ran out to meet him as she heard his knock, 
to tell him of the visitor. His face darkened ominously. 
“ Who did you say was here?” he asked. 

” Monsieur Sauvignac ; he says he is an old colleague 
of yours abroad. I hope I have not done wrong in 
keeping him ? ” 

‘‘No, no, my dear,” said Friend hastily, turning away 
from her and dashing upstairs to the drawing room. 
His brow wore its blackest danger signal ; but she heard 
his voice with its accustomed heartiness greeting the 
visitor: ''Ah, cher monsieur, quel surprise!'' and he 
immediately led him downstairs to the library. Their 
conversation took place in French, which translated 
would run somewhat as follows. 

‘‘ Good heavens, monsieur, what an imprudence ! ” ex- 
claimed Friend. 

“ Have you not received my letter, then ? ” 

‘‘Letter? No. Why have you come to London?” 

“To see you, my friend. Surely you expected me?” 


96 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

‘‘Not without warning; and not here. Why did you 
not send word to me to join you at Hythe? ” 

“ I wrote, saying unless you met me there I should 
come to London. It has miscarried, then; or perhaps 
it is only delayed.’’ 

“You sent it by the usual channel?” 

“ Certainly. Ah, it must be safe. Well, no matter, 
my friend ; let me tell my errand. I come straight from 
Turin, where I have been attending the coronation of 
the Emperor as King of Italy. One more step gained! 
He approves your scheme, and I am to carry back to 
him all the details. He is unable yet to fix the time ; all 
depends on Admiral Villeneuve’s return from the Indies. 
No news has yet reached us from him; have you heard 
anything ? ” 

“Not yet; but I have improved my communications 
with the Admiralty: I have means of intelligence there 
now, and I have made some important acquaintances. 
Whatever is known there I shall hear as soon as it 
reaches London.” 

“Good! You are an admirable fellow, nion cher; 
you are unique! Well, as soon as Villeneuve returns, 
he is to reinforce himself at the Spanish ports, defeat 
Cornwallis, and then make for Boulogne, and there guard 
the Channel while we cross. It is your part to prepare 
our landing as you suggested.” 

“ Well, I believe the thing is feasible. But you say it 
depends on Villeneuve’s return? Suppose Nelson inter- 
cepts him ? ” 

“ He shall not intercept him, my friend ; our Em- 
peror’s star shines on him for victory. But if he does, 
what then? Six hours will be enough to see us across; 
and on a dark night, what is to give Cornwallis the 
alarm ? ” 

“ That’s what I want to know. Will the Emperor 
risk it in the absence of Villeneuve’s fleet?” 


THE RETURN TO TOWN 


97 


‘‘It may be; but at present we wait for him. If he 
comes not, then the Emperor may decide to strike inde- 
pendently of his ships.’’ 

“Well, I had better make the arrangements. I shall 
want some weeks; at least a month. This is June 28th; 
I can’t be ready till the end of July, according to the 
present plan.” 

“ That is all right. The Emperor will not leave Turin 
till the 8th of next month; he will proceed to Boulogne 
at its close. You shall have plenty of time. And what 
is a change of plan to you? You are as full of schemes 
as a silkworm moth is of eggs. The Emperor relies on 
you. You are sure to be ready.” 

“Well, I’ll do my best; I can do no more. I have 
some fresh intelligence for him about the coast defenses; 
I have been down at Brighton lately studying the camps 
and the Volunteer movement.” 

“ Invaluable man ! Why, the ‘ chief glory of our 
Emperor’s career, the conquest of your stubborn, arro- 
gant country, will all be owing to you ! You lay a throne 
at the Emperor’s feet. What a glory for you ! ” 

“ I hope it will be worth something more than glory to 
me, or I should not trouble myself about it. But the 
Emperor understands the worth of intelligent service as 
well as any man.” 

“ Ah, he is a generous master.” 

“ But come, Sauvignac, what are we to do with you ? 
I can give you a bed for tonight, but no longer; and it 
is not safe for you to be loose on the London streets. 
Did you meet with no adventures on your way to town ? ” 

“ I did with one or two. Coming through Maidstone 
I was mobbed by a crowd; but my horse was good and 
I was able to escape. And I think a word or two of 
my business had gone about the coast. There was a 
good deal of stir at Folkestone, where I landed.” 

“You are rashest, the most imprudent of mortals! 


98 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Why did you not land at Hythe, and wait at my rooms 
till you heard from me?'’ 

‘‘ The time was pressing^ my friend. My business was 
to reach you as soon as possible." 

But how to get you back again ? I can ship you 
across from Hythe; but if the country's roused it will be 
a deuced difficult job to get you safely there. You must 
lie up a bit in London till we hear how things are looking. 
You will be safe at the Running Horse in Southwark, 
if you will only stay there and not show yourself outside." 

‘Hf only the landlord of the Running Horse has a 
pretty wife or daughter, I shall be glad enough to do that, 
mon cher/^ 

'' And then we must trust to the chapter of accidents. 
I must go down to Hythe myself to arrange our affair 
there ; but to go with you seems risky, and to let you go 
alone is madness. But I will think out some plan. In 
the meantime, you are my guest for tonight." 

He took him upstairs to the drawing room, and told 
his wife to see that a room was prepared. 


CHAPTER X 


YOUNG LOVE TRIUMPHANT 

This then was the secret of John Friend’s wealth and 
position. He was in the pay of Napoleon as a spy on 
his own country. 

His father, a man of good standing, had unfortunately 
inherited a title to a large property consisting partly of 
money in the Funds and partly of a West Indian estate; 
but his right was disputed by a distant relative. The 
latter had the longer purse, and used it in the adoption 
of every device known to chicanery to wear down his 
adversary. The suit dragged on for more than forty 
years; and though his advisers always assured Mr. 
Friend that his claim should succeed, he was ruined 
before he could obtain a decision. The property there- 
fore fell to the other claimant; and Mr. Friend, after 
five years’ exile, died at Boulogne a broken hearted man. 
Young Friend passed his boyhood under the shadow of 
this disastrous suit. Being left destitute on the death 
of his father, interest was made to get him a subordinate 
post in a Government Office. He was then barely six- 
teen, but soon distinguished himself by his intelligence 
and industry. He was transferred to the Foreign Office, 
where he rapidly rose to a position of confidence. 

But he meant to make money. He was utterly un- 
scrupulous and of an intellect that delighted in intrigue. 
He had had no moral training, and only the perfunctory 
religious instruction of a public school: for his father 
99 


loo THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

was a freethinker and a sceptic ; in his younger and more 
prosperous days, a scoffer like his master Voltaire, and 
latterly a bitter and envenomed hater of Christianity. 
The son had grown up constantly hearing that he was 
defrauded of his rights ; that Government was in league 
with the oppressor to rob him; that there was no justice 
to be looked for from the laws, and no hope of redress 
that he did not exact for himself. So being of great 
ambition and strong will, he determined to make the best 
position he could for himself by any means which came 
in his way. 

But for a time it seemed that honesty was the best 
policy, and he served his employers faithfully; though 
owing to his peculiar talent for secret and involved trans- 
actions he was always the man to be chosen in matters 
where finesse rather than blunt honesty was required. 
Without interest and with nothing to aid him but the 
force of his own ability, he raised himself to as high a 
position as was possible to be attained in the office; but 
he was not satisfied ; and believing that no further open- 
ing was to be found there, he quitted the Foreign Office 
in the year 1786, and returned to France, where he gave 
a close study to the causes of the Revolution, which he 
foresaw and prophesied. Speaking French perfectly, 
and familiar with all parties there, he was much em- 
ployed by the emigres and their friends in England to 
assist the escape of proscribed individuals and families. 
He was also furnishing regular information to the Eng- 
lish Government as to che progress of events and the 
temper of the different parties in France. In 1791 he 
returned to England, and made the acquaintance of Mr. 
Henry Norman and his daughter and niece, with the 
latter of whom he quickly fell in love. He asked per- 
mission to pay his addresses; but her uncle, though he 
had been strongly attracted by him at first, had grown 
to feel uneasy about his position and character as he 


YOUNG LOVE TRIUMPHANT loi 


knew him better; and told him that he could not with a 
safe conscience entrust his niece^s happiness to his keep- 
ing. But Mary Norman was twenty-three years old, 
and her little fortune was in her own handsv Her uncle 
remonstrated with her in vain. She insisted on marry- 
ing Friend; and his only resource was to threaten to 
disown her, and to forbid her to hold any communication 
with her cousin Margaret, to whom she was deeply 
attached. Of course his threats had no more weight 
than is usual in such cases. Mary Norman married John 
Friend, and her uncle kept his word. 

It was not until 1796, however, that Friend began a 
systematic course of treachery. In that year he was sent 
abroad to gather information for the Government about 
the French invasion of Ireland, which he accomplished 
so succecssfully as to win high encomiums from Lord 
Downshire and Pitt ; but he also made use of his oppor- 
tunities to establish an understanding with the French 
leader, Hoche, whom he supplied with intelligence from 
the English Foreign Office, thus playing off one side 
skilfully against the other. On Bonaparte’s becoming 
First Consul, he entered into a regular arrangement with 
him to send him news of all that might affect him; and 
though he was still employed by Pitt and the various 
Ministers for Foreign Affairs as a trustworthy agent and 
collector of information, he kept up the double game 
with the greatest skill and spirit, and betrayed the French 
to the English and the English to the French, with a nice 
discrimination of how far it was safe to go which had 
as yet preserved him from all suspicion. 

With such a man as this in the case, it had not been 
by chance alone that Will North found himself unable to 
approach Susan as he longed to do, and as her guardian 
invited him, — when, however, he had previously assured 
himself that Will could not come. Friend meant to make 
use of North’s affection for his wife and daughter. It 


102 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

was with this design that he had procured him his post ; 
but he did not want his love for Susan to interfere with 
Raby’s suit, and thought him best kept off the scene till 
that had been brought to a successful issue. But whether 
it were on his account or not, Susan could not be 
brought to reconsider her reply. Friend spoke to her 
himself at last, when his wife had said all she ventured 
to say without success. 

'' Well, Sukey, my girl,’’ he began ; “ so you will have 
nothing to say to poor Raby ? ” 

*^Dear Daddy!— I— I can’t.” 

‘‘ Can’t you love? Now tell me, my child, what your 
objection is. Have you got anyone else in your mind? ” 

Susan looked down and shook her head. I am afraid 
she was not candid; but then candor on such a point 
demands either unusual honesty and vigor of mind, or a 
perfect reliance on the sympathy of the listener. Susan 
loved and admired her Daddy Friend with all her heart; 
but she never looked for sympathy from him with the 
subtleties of feminine fancy. 

Well, my dear, I know it’s no use pressing a girl for 
her reasons. It’s a case of Doctor Fell. But, Sukey, 
it’s a serious matter, my love. Here’s a chance of es- 
tablishing your happiness for your whole life, such a 
chance as may never come again. Here’s a young man, 
an honest, worthy fellow, devoted to you, who is sure 
to make you a kind husband, and with everything to 
offer that the world can give. If you can bring yourself 
to think you could take him, you would lack nothing 
that the world considers can give happiness. You must 
think, my dear, what you want your future to be. You 
know you cannot live with us forever: you are young 
and will outlive us; and though I hope to be able to 
make provision for you, yet it would be a dreary life 
for you if you had made no new ties. And what sort 
of life do you think will suit you best, Sukey? I think 


YOUNG LOVE TRIUMPHANT 103 

you enjoyed your taste of high life at Brighton ; it seemed 
to me that you showed decided talents for society. You 
can’t pretend you don’t care about fine clothes and posi- 
tion and plenty of admiration, my dear. You have 
spirit and ambition, Sukey. You are young yet, and I 
suppose think that love alone will be enough to fill your 
life. When you are ten years older you will find that 
it is not the only thing, and that it’s a hard lot where love 
has to struggle single handed against everything else. 
I don’t want you to marry without affection, my dear. 
No life is worth living without love; but can’t you learn 
to feel a kindness for poor Raby, who loves you so 
dearly, and with whom you would have not only affec- 
tion, but all the other good things of life as well — 
fortune, position, admiration, power ? ” 

Susan looked down and was silent. 

“ He’s not the sort of man I could care for,” she 
faltered at last. ‘‘ He’s so — so old and dull ; — I mean, 
he only cares for Parliament and business and things.” 

‘‘ And you, Sukey. He cares for you more than for 
Parliament and business and all the other things.” 

He’s very good to me, I confess.” 

‘‘ But still you don’t think you could bear him as a 
lifelong companion? Well, my love, I will never force 
your inclinations. You are your own mistress, Susan. 
But, my dear, remember this; that if you can bring 
yourself to accept Mr. Raby, I shall be most heartily 
rejoiced; and for my own sake as well as because I 
believe it will secure your happiness. Your marriage 
with him would be of the greatest possible service to me. 
So you see, my love, I am not altogether disinterested 
in my advice to you to take him,” he concluded with 
a smile. 

Susan caught his hand and kissed it. “ Dearest 
Daddy!” she cried. ‘‘I wish I could! For your sake 
I could almost wish — I should like ” 


104 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

Well, my dear, will you try? Will you think if you 
can do it?” 

'' O Daddy, it is no use ! I should like to please you — 
but marry him? — no, I can’t.” 

“ I am sorry, my dear,” said Friend gently. He said 
no more, and left the room. Susan felt miserable, and 
guilty of blackest ingratitude. 

Such was the effect his words had on her that she 
might have been induced to follow his advice and at 
least consider the possibility of bringing herself to toler- 
ate Mr. Raby as a lover, if just at this crisis Will North 
had not reappeared. It was a Sunday afternoon. 
Friend had not asked him lately to call, but he could 
no longer keep away. Mrs. Friend was at church, he 
was told, but Mr. Friend and Miss Marny were within. 
He was shown into the drawing room, where Susan was 
alone. 

She had been thinking about Mr. Raby, and sadly 
reflecting that North seemed to have dropped out of 
her life, and that there was little chance that they 
should ever approach even as near to each other 
as they had been at Brighton, when he entered the 
room. 

“Mr. North!” she exclaimed, the color leaving her 
cheeks. 

“ Miss Marny!” 

He was equally at a loss. “ I believe. Miss Marny — 
I hear — I have to congratulate you.” 

“To congratulate me, Mr. North? On what?” 

“ On your approaching marriage with Mr. Raby.” 

“ I am not going to marry Mr. Raby ! ” exclaimed 
Susan. “ O, Mr. North! How could you think it?” 
The color rushed back to her face in a flood. 

“ You are not? Thank heaven! ” He came one pace 
nearer. 

Susan laughed. “ Why do you thank heaven, Mr. 


YOUNG LOVE TRIUMPHANT 105 

North? Surely that is not very polite of you, to poor 
Mr. Raby at any rate. He is an excellent match, I am 
told.’’ 

No doubt ; and I have nothing to offer you ; I am 
worth nothing in the world; but I love you with all my 
heart and soul. Miss Marny; I have not a thought in 
my mind that does not begin and end with you; and 
if I had seen you another’s, I think it would have killed 
me.” She did not speak. Do with me what you will ; 
trample me under foot if you like. I am yours to the 
last drop of blood in my body, and I shall die happy 
now I have told you.” 

She said nothing. ‘‘ Well? Have you nothing to say 
to me? You despise me too much to answer?” 

What do you want me to say ? ” asked Susan in the 
smallest possible voice. 

‘‘ What do I ?” He looked at her, and the truth 

dawned on him. She wavered towards him; he sprang 
to her, and she fell into his arms. 

They were still locked in an embrace when Friend 
entered the room. “ Hello ! ” he exclaimed. They 
started asunder. 

I am surprised,” he said gravely. ‘‘ Pray has this 
been going on long ? ” 

“ I have only been here these few minutes,” stam- 
mered North. 

I mean your understanding with Miss Marny. I 
thought, Susan, that you told me your affections were 
disengaged ? ” 

They were : at least — I did not know ” 

‘‘ And since when is it that you have known ? ” 

It is only this minute that we have understood each 
other,” said North. “I know, Mr. Friend, that I have 
nothing to offer Miss Marny; but I love her with all 
my heart.” 

‘‘We had better talk of this in private,” said Friend. 


io6 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Come with me, young man. Don’t be afraid, Susan ; 
I am not going to eat him.” 

He led him downstairs and into the library. '' I don’t 
know that there is anything to be said, however,” he 
said. ‘‘ I believe I know all that you do of your circum- 
stances. You must be aware that I expect Susan to 
make a brilliant match ; and that in any case I should 
be very chary of giving my consent to a marriage which 
did not offer the best prospects for her happiness.” 

‘‘ I hope her happiness at least would be secure with 
me,” said Will. All that a man can do to make her 

happy I will ; and if the devotion of my whole life ” 

No doubt; but it’s rather a question of position than 
devotion, my young friend. You barely earn your own 
living as yet. Now, Susan is born for society. She is 
full of spirit; and though she’s at the romantic age at 
present, you’ll find she needs a career for herself later 
on. Girls of her age are apt to think that love outweighs 
the whole world; but did you ever know a woman of 
thirty who was of the same opinion? No, my friend; 
you must put this nonsense out of your head, and not 
think of taking a wife till you are able to support 
one.” 

'' That’s impossible, Mr. Friend, now that I am priv- 
ileged to think that her happiness depends on me. You 
may talk as you like about what she will want when 
she’s thirty; but she is old enough now to choose for 
herself, and she has made her choice.” 

‘‘ Oh, come, I am not going to argue with a lover,” 
said Friend good-humoredly. ‘‘ I have said my say, and 
there’s an end of it. Good-by, North; we may keep 
our friendship at the Admiralty, I hope; but I can’t 
ask you here again at present.’^ 

'' I suppose not, sir. But you will not consider I am 
betraying any confidence or acting dishonorably if I 
take steps to see or correspond with Miss Marny, should 


YOUNG LOVE TRIUMPHANT 107 

she desire it? For it is by her wishes rather than yours 
that I am bound to be guided/' 

Friend laughed. I see, Will; you give me fair warn- 
ing. Well, it shall be my concern to prevent that, if 
necessary; and I won't accuse you of acting dishonor- 
ably. Good-by, my dear fellow." 

They shook hands and parted; and Friend returned 
to Susan. “ Well, Sukey, so this is why you said No 
to poor Raby. You had young North in your head all 
the time." 

Susan hung her head and made no reply. 

‘'You sly little baggage! Well, the mischief's done 
now and can't be helped. But, my dear. I'm afraid 
you've made a peck of trouble for yourself. Poor young 
North has his way to make in the world: he can barely 
support himself yet; it'll be years before he can afford 
to marry; and then he'll find a wife and family like a 
clog round his neck; he'll never rise so burdened." He 
said no more ; but it was enough to cloud her happiness ; 
almost enough to make her wonder if she ought not to 
give him up. Not quite, however. Youthful hope and 
confidence were too strong in her. 

Mrs. Friend, of course, took the part of the lovers. 
She pleaded earnestly with her husband for them. 
“ But, my dear, the lad has not got a farthing," said he. 
“ How can he keep a wife? " 

“ My love. Lady Anne at Brighton told me that you 
had offered to give Susan a handsome fortune if she 
married Mr. Raby. The sum she mentioned sounded 
preposterous to me; but, allowing for exaggeration, you 
must still be able to make them comfortable if you like." 

“Oh, these women!" groaned Friend. “They get 
hold of everything. My dear Polly, can't you see the 
difference between marrying the heir to the Sandown 
title and a poor fellow like North? For the sake of 
giving her consequence in a great family like that, I 


io8 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

would strain every nerve to give her a decent fortune; 
but why should we impoverish ourselves for North, who 
would love her none the better and can't settle a penny 
on her ? " 

But it would enable the children to be happy, and 
what better reason for impoverishing ourselves can 
there be than that? You and I don't need riches, my 
love." 

But I haven't got them, dear. It's all vei:y well for 
Lady Anne to talk; you know how things get exagger- 
ated; but it is really not in my power to give Susan 
anything considerable. I have, it is true, saved up 
something for her; but the great fortune Lady Anne 
talked of is purely mythical." 

‘‘ It must have had some foundation, my dear ; she 
mentioned twenty thousand pounds." 

‘‘ The deuce she did ! What stories people tell ! " 

“ But if it were only half that — and people do not 
often double the amounts in exaggerating them — it would 
still be enough for them to live on." 

“Well, Polly, I'll tell you this; Susan's marriage to 
Raby was a special case, and I could do more for her 
in that instance than any other. The money would not 
all have come out of my pocket." 

“But still you can do something? Husband, let the 
children be happy." 

“ Confound the children ! Why can't they be happy 
in my way? I had planned everything so nicely for 
them ; and they must needs go upsetting all my arrange- 
ments by falling in love ! I wish I were the stern parent 
in a play; I'd have Will kidnapped and sent to the plan- 
tations, and lock up Miss Susan on bread and water 
until she came to her senses; and then I suppose we 
should have an elopement in proper style, and I should 
end by dying miserably in a debtor's prison amid the 
execrations of the audience. No ; the young folks always 


YOUNG LOVE TRIUMPHANT 109 

carry the day; we elders have no chance against them. 
All that’s left for us to do is to join their hands and 
give ’em our blessing with a good grace. I suppose I 
shall have to come round to that at last.” 

‘‘ Thank you, my dearest life ! Thank you for saying 
that! You have indeed given me pleasure!” 

What matchmakers you women are ! I suppose 
because you took young North under your wing when 
he was hurt, you have always favored him. You love 
everything that’s friendless and downtrodden, don’t 
you, Polly ? ” 

I can’t help wishing them to marry, dearest life ; 
they love one another, and a first love has something so 
beautiful, so sacred about it. I could not bear my 
Susan’s life to be shadowed just at its start. And as for 
Will North, I feel I can love him like my own son.” 

He pressed her hand. 

But mind, Polly, I am not going to give way at once,” 
he said presently. ‘Hf there is a chance that Sukey may 
be induced to change her mind, I won’t throw it away. 
Too much depends on it; I can’t give up the Raby con- 
nection without a struggle. But if she remains firm, 
why, then she must have her own way — provoking toad ! ” 
So Friend brought his utmost powers of persuasion 
to bear on Susan, which were by no means small, since he 
worked sympathetically on her reason, and enlisted all 
her affections of older growth in his favor. She never 
felt, as girls usually do when parents or guardians try to 
persuade them against their hearts, that Friend did not 
understand her, and was working against her real in- 
terest. She was shaken, but not convinced. Supported 
by the buoyancy of youth, she managed to resist the 
pictures of the misery of a life of poverty which he 
drew, and refused to believe that Will would ever repent 
of having married her. Gradually Friend convinced 
himself that she would not change her mind, and turned 


no THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

to the consideration of what further use he could make 
of North. He owned to himself that he was not entirely 
sorry to be rid of the good old Tory connection; the 
narrow sympathies, the strait-laced proprieties, the 
bdhnded outlook of the landed proprietor class, he was 
beginning to find an insufferable weariness. He had no 
principles ; but he preferred the society of men of bold 
and speculative minds. 

He had already found North of considerable service 
to him in his occupation as a spy. He often visited 
him at the Admiralty Offices, and through this intro- 
duction had become acquainted with several men of 
standing there, who, impressed with his knowledge and 
interest in public matters, had used little caution in their 
communications to him. Friend’s manner invariably in- 
spired confidence; his discretion seemed as conspicuous 
as his honesty. And at that epoch of national en- 
thusiasm, when one soul animated every one from high- 
est to lowest, and party spirit was almost extinct save 
in Parliamentary circles, who dreamt that treachery 
could be at work? So Friend was one of the first to 
learn of Villeneuve’s return from the West Indies, a 
piece of intelligence which reached London on July the 
8th. He made haste to send the news to Napoleon, for 
so greatly superior were the English cruisers to their 
enemies that Bonaparte often remained for weeks in 
ignorance of naval occurrences known in England. 

The French spy Sauvignac still lay concealed at the 
inn at Southwark. Rumors had reached London about 
his presence in Kent, and Friend had as yet found no 
way of providing for his escape. So' jealously was the 
coast guarded that it was a very difficult matter to come 
and go undetected. Friend had his own means indeed 
at Hythe, the headquarters of the smuggling gangs of 
Romney Marsh ; but he dared not send Sauvignac alone. 


YOUNG LOVE TRIUMPHANT iii 


Parliament rose on the 12th of July, and Pitt im- 
mediately went down to Walmer Castle to inspect bat- 
teries, hold reviews, and superintend the progress of the 
military canal at Hythe, which was now nearly twelve 
miles long, though it was intended to make it extend for 
three times that distance. One day about a week later. 
North joined Friend at an eating-house where they fre- 
quently met, in a state of great excitement. Some im- 
portant despatches had arrived from Lord Nelson, and 
he was chosen as the messenger to forward them to 
Pitt. 

‘‘ Tis promotion for me, Mr. Friend,’’ said Will, ‘‘ and 
I venture to hope ’tis but the first step. I believe I 
have succeeded in pleasing Mr. Hunt, the chief of my 
department; and if I acquit myself well over this com- 
mission, who knows what further good fortune it may 
not bring? ” 

‘‘ It’s a good beginning, my lad, and I wish you luck 
with it. ’Tis promising indeed. You start to-mor- 
row?” An idea had entered his head. 

'‘No, on Saturday morning; I have to wait for a 
letter from Lord Mulgrave, who is to see the King 
to-morrow. But I am to lose no time on the way; the 
affair is pressing.” 

" And where will you find Pitt ? ” 

"At Folkestone, ’tis supposed; but he is to make a 
tour of inspection round the Cinque Ports, and he may 
be at Dover or Blastings. Supposing I carry out this 
business satisfactorily, Mr. Friend, and get a further 
rise, I hardly dare to presume it would make a difference 
in your views for Miss Marny?” 

" I am not so sure of that, my boy. The women 
have been talking me round, confound their wheedling 
tongues ! It seems you have managed to bewitch Susan 
entirely; she declares, and her aunt supports her, that 
she’ll never be happy without you. What’s a poor 


1 12 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

guardian to do when the women are all against him? 
I can’t let Susan break her heart.” 

‘‘God bless you for those words, Mr. Friend! Give 
me but a hope, and you’ll see how I’ll work for Susan.” 

“You’ll have to, my boy. I can’t give my girl to 
a fool or a failure; you must prove your mettle before 
you take her. But I suppose you’ll get her in the end ; 
and I want you to do her credit. Look here; what 
do you say to my joining you in your ride into Kent? 
I have a bit of business I want to see to. The fact 
is I have a friend I want to ship off quietly; a French- 
man who has got himself smuggled over to see about 
some family matters, and whom I shall be glad to 
see safe off again; the foolish fellow has no papers, 
and is in some little danger of being arrested as a spy. 
If we go with you, your character as a Government 
messenger will make all safe for him. Our ways will 
lie together, as I take him to Hythe.” 

“ I shall be delighted, Mr. Friend, both to have your 
company and to be able to be of any service to you.” 

“ Well, we’ll call it arranged, then. You start first 
thing on Saturday? I’ll meet you at the Admiralty. 
What hour do you start? ” 

“ I am to be there for the despatches at nine.” 

“All right; I’ll meet you there. And you can look 
in at Harley Street this evening, if you like, to tell 
Susan your good news. There; now you’ll cry quits, 
I fancy.” 

“Never; I am a thousandfold and eternally your 
debtor, Mr. Friend. I can’t even express my thanks 
and gratitude.” 

“Never mind them, my lad. Well, good-by; I shall 
see you this evening, I suppose.” 


CHAPTER XI 


A lovers" meeting 

So William North presented himself in Harley Street 
in the character of an accepted lover; and Susan with 
a lovely color in her cheeks flitted across the passage 
before him into the parlor where they were to have their 
first meeting as a betrothed couple. He closed the 
door, and catching her hand began to kiss it passionately ; 
then he secured both, sank on his knee and kissed as 
though he would devour them. She smiled, well pleased. 

Susan, Susan ! How I love you ! More than my 
life ! "" he exclaimed ecstatically. 

‘‘Truly?'’ she whispered, thrilled with delight. 

“ Truly, most truly. I love you more than all the 
world and all that it contains; more than I can say; 
more than I can know. Look on me, my angel, and 
read for yourself if it is not true.” 

“ I know,” she breathed. “ I knew from the first 
time we saw each other — I felt you loved me, as I loved 
you.” 

“You loved me, Susan?” Transported, he caught 
her in his arms with greater ardor than tenderness. 
She was frightened by his violence, and struggled against 
him unavailingly. “Let me go; let me go! O Mr. 
North, don’t!” Terror sounded in her voice. He re- 
leased her instantly. 

“Did I frighten you? Was I too bold? Dearest, 
don’t be frightened of me; I would not harm you for 


1 14 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

anything. Dearest, dearest Susan, you must not fear 
me. 

‘‘You must be gentle with me/’ said Susan plead- 
ingly. “ Indeed I do not fear you ; but I am not used 
to roughness.” 

“ My beloved ! I will control myself,” said Will. 
“ I love you so much, that I would give my life to save 
you from the slightest pain of fear. Forgive me, my 
life; I will keep a better watch on myself. You don’t 
know how passionately I love you.” 

“ But if you love me, you ought to wish to please 
me,” said Susan. 

“ I do; I do. Only teach me how to please you, my 
beloved ; I will frame all my conduct by your directions. 
I have been trained in a rough school, Susan; my life 
has been a hard and brutal one, surrounded by vice and 
cruelty. Forgive me if I show myself tainted by it. 
You must lift me out of the mire, my best and dearest: 
help me to make myself more worthy of you; Heaven 
knows I have sunk deep enough. But your purity will 
raise me. Angel that you are, you will teach me how 
to deserve the blessing of your love.” 

“ I will try,” said Susan, thrilled with delight. “ But, 
dear William ” — she blushed and hesitated over the name 
— “ You must teach me, too. You must not think I am 
an angel and perfectly good. You are good too; so 
much better and stronger than I! You must help and 
support me; I am only a poor weak little thing that 
wants to lean on your strength.” 

Will repudiated this with all his might. He protested 
against the blasphemy of supposing he could be her 
equal; but inwardly he was transported by the loveli- 
ness of her believing it. Susan felt herself in a seventh 
heaven. The reality was even better than her dreams. 
She rebuked her lover gently for his exaltation of her, 
but she thought it the proper and fitting frame of mind 


A LOVERS’ MEETING 115 

for him; it was not because she disapproved but be- 
cause she thought deprecation of his praises the proper 
and fitting part for her to take, that she rebuked him. 
She felt that his worship gave her an ideal to live up 
to; she had now to show herself worthy of it. Poor 
child, her proposal to be taught by him was a very 
conventional one. She had endowed him with all man- 
ner of imaginary virtues, but his real ones she had 
neither the insight nor the strength of mind to profit by. 
The sincerity and single-mindedness of his love, for 
instance, was quite beyond her power to copy. Hers 
was partly feminine delight in being loved and pleasure 
in his admiration — gratified vanity, in short, though van- 
ity of the most innocent kind — and partly worship of 
her own romantic ideal, with which she had identified 
him merely because he had appeared at the psychological 
moment, stood six feet high without his shoes, and pos- 
sessed a remarkably handsome figure and face. She 
credited him with all the virtues she admired because 
her self-esteem demanded that the man she loved should 
possess them. Her intention, unexpressed even to her- 
self, was of flinging herself morally upon his neck and 
making him bear the burden of her shortcomings. She 
was to be raised by his virtues, but by no exertion of 
her own. 

Ours is to be a perfect love, is it not?’' said Susan, 
smiling at him as he sat at her feet. “ We shall trust 
one another absolutely, and have no secrets from each 
other, and share all our thoughts and hopes, and each 
try to raise the other. Do you know, it seems to me 
that love at its highest, a love like ours, is something 
very sacred, very holy.” 

'' It is ; it is,” agreed Will rapturously, kissing her 
shoes. 

When I first woke up to know its meaning,” pro- 
ceeded Susan, the color deepening in her cheeks — it 


ii6 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

was that day at Bringhton, you know, when Mr. Armour 
began persecuting me — I was frightened and shocked. 
Up till then I had thought that men had no other idea 
when they loved but of pleasing and honoring and serv- 
ing the woman they admired. I could not understand 
how there could be such a thing as a selfish love, a love 
which seeks nothing but its own gratification; and when 
I realized that those young men cared nothing for me — 
for my real self, my mind, my spirit — I was quite hor- 
rified and ready to think that all men’s love was de- 
basing. It was only when I learnt to know you,” said 
Susan, unconsciously misrepresenting the growth of her 
ideas, that I discovered what a power to uplift it might 
be.” 

'' When you lernt to know me ? Me ? Ah, Susan, 
if you only knew how unworthy I am of you — have been, 
at least; for please God I will never sink so low again. 
My angel, if all women were like you, what a different 
place the world would be.” 

Is it so bad? ” said Susan, enjoying her role intensely. 

But we two will do what we can to make it better, 
will we not? I believe, do you know, that even two 
who are strong in love and good purposes, may do 
a great deal to improve those around them.” 

''You may; you do. What can be out of the power 
of an angel like you to effect? O Susan, my beloved, 
make me more worthy of you ! ” 

"You are worthy; you are,” said Susan, laying her 
hand gently on his hair. " You are not like those selfish, 
low-minded men. You love my mind, not my face 
alone.” 

"Yes, divinely lovely as your person is — fit shrine of 
such a soul,” said Will, falling again to kissing her 
shoes, " it is the least of your beauties. I loved you 
the first minute I saw you, Susan; and yet even then 
it was the lovely spirit looking from your eyes that 


A LOVERS^ MEETING 117 

drew me to your feet. It was because I could see how 
good you were that I loved you. And yet how little 
I dreamt of what you really were ! ’’ 

There was a rapturous silence, while he devoured her 
hand with kisses, feeling himself whirled to giddy heights 
of undreamed-of ecstasies. 

'' And there is another thing I want to say,’' proceeded 
Susan. I believe that there should be an absolute trust 
between those who love one another. There should 
be no doubts and jealousies possible. Let us promise, 
dear William, always to share all our thoughts; to tell 
each other not only all we do, but all we think and feel. 
I will tell you what I believe would be the only thing 
fatal to my love, the only way in which you could make 
me hate you; and that would be if ever you began to 
suspect and doubt me, and would not tell me openly 
what you thought. I could not endure that. I promise 
you, William, that I will always be open, and truthful 
to you. Will you promise me the same?” 

“ I will ; I swear it ! ” vowed Will, sealing his oath 
with kisses on her hand. Don’t speak, don’t dream 
of my ever doubting you, Susan, my divinity; I could 
as soon suspect the sun in heaven, as soon dream of 
doubting Holy Writ. And to be open and truthful to 
you — why, it will be my greatest joy to keep my soul 
open to you as a book. Yes, you shall write in it as 
well as read.” 

Ah, we shall be happy together ! ” sighed Susan. 

Will cast a rapid glance backwards and forwards over 
his life. He could not bring the murkiness of his past 
before her in detail now; some day he would confess 
and receive absolution for all. But his future should 
be spent under her eyes; she should choose his path 
for him; she should know everything he did and hoped. 
Joyfully he poured out to her the news of his commis- 
sion and his hopes of distinguishing himself and con- 


ii8 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

sequent advancement. She heard with deepest interest 
and sympathy. In this moment of intense feeling a 
confidence even on a mundane matter was sacred. It 
was a token of the union of their souls; and she felt 
the occasion sacramental. 

Their conversation ceased for a while to be personal 
as Will described his employment, the men he met, 
and the deep impression made on him by Friend’s quiet 
power and unpretentious but inexhaustible knowledge of 
public affairs. Susan heard with an interest lively as 
his own. She had always loved and admired her 
''Daddy Friend” most deeply. His somewhat rare ap- 
pearances during her childhood had made him an im- 
pressive figure. His arrival had been the signal for 
universal good spirits and a sense of holiday. There 
was no difficulty he could not overcome, no cloud he 
could not clear away. And now her admiration was 
spreading from private and personal grounds to public 
ones. She learnt that he was as great in the difficulties 
of the nation as in dealing with an impertinent landlady 
or the vulgar curiosity of an intrusive neighbor; that 
members of Parliament and Secretaries of State held 
him as high in their esteem as did Betty and Jacky in 
the kitchen. She began to feel herself capable of un- 
derstanding the mysteries that surrounded him; and a 
vision darted across her mind of a time when she as 
well as Will might be admitted to his secrets, and — who 
knows? — perhaps she herself, obscure little Susan 
Marny, might by some happy chance be the instrument 
to deliver England from the giant grasp of Napoleon. 
Susan’s idler dreams were very little conditioned by 
probability or even possibility; but she had the sense 
not to dwell on these most wild of her fancies. 

They were interrupted at last by a tap at the door. 
" Children,” said Mrs. Friend’s voice, " it is getting late. 
It is time that Will was going.” 


A LOVERS’ MEETING 


119 

'"Going?’’ said Will. “O Susan! how can I tear 
myself from you?” 

She smiled. She felt no reluctance to be left with 
her memories and dreams; but they did not offer the 
same consolation to her lover, who desired only her 
living presence. “ Come, we must say farewell,” she 
said. "" It is but for a short time.” 

Who knows ? And long or short, the shortest time 
is endless to me. I leave my very life — part of myself, 
with you, my beloved, when I go from you.” 

Ah, and all my thoughts and hopes go with you. 
Yon take my heart with you when you go.” 

Susan, my angel! Say it again! Tell me, do you 
really and truly love me ? ” 

Susan looked up at him with shy coquetry. “ You 
must find that out for yourself,” she said; and then, 
suddenly relenting as she read the ardor and sincerity 
of his gaze, “ Indeed I love you with all my heart and 
soul.” 

He caught her in his embrace and kissed her pas- 
sionately. She submitted at first, half pleased, half 
frightened at his warmth; and when she judged she had 
allowed enough indulgence, tried to free herself ; but 
she might as well have struggled against bars of iron. 
“ Enough, enough, dear William ! ” she entreated. " Let 
me go — do let me go! You are hurting me. Mr. 
North, set me free! ” But blind and deaf with passion. 
Will did not heed. Angered and terrified, she fought 
with all her strength. Her struggles brought him to 
his senses: he released her; and she sprang away from 
him to the further side of the room, where she faced 
him, panting with breath. 

"'You ought not: you ought to let me go when I tell 
you!” she cried reproachfully when she had gathered 
breath. "" How dare you ! how can you, when you say 
you love me so much ? ” 


120 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 


It is just because I love you so much that I am 
carried beyond myself, Susan,’’ he replied, penitent and 
ashamed. Forgive me, my dearest. In truth, I love 
you so wildly I know not what I do. It is stronger than 
I.” 

‘'You must not let it be stronger; you must control 
yourself,” declared Susan sternly. “ An uncontrolled 
passion is mere weakness. I will be loved in no such 
fashion.” 

He rushed across the room and fell on his kness to 
seize her hand. “Forgive me, my best and dearest! 
I will try not to oifend again. But you don’t know what 
a man’s love is, or you would not talk of control. Con- 
trol the movements of the sun; control the course of 
time ; but don’t attempt to control a lover in the presence 
of his adored.” 

“ Now you talk just as Mr. Armour or Lord Com- 
bleigh might,” said Susan. “ What nonsense — what 
degrading nonsense are you uttering?” 

“Ah, don’t liken me to them, Susan. You are right; 
I can and will control myself. But oh, Susan, you 
little know the forces you have wakened ! ” He was 
all flushed and disheveled with passion and with the 
stress of his embrace; the sweat stood on his brow; 
tears were in his eyes. Susan, dainty and trim and 
cool^ was repelled by the sight of him. 

“ I don’t want to be loved in that fashion,” she said 
coldly. “ I want affection.” 

“ I offer her my heart’s best blood — I pour her out the 
purest, hottest passion ; and she wants affection ! ” he 
cried in despair. “ Susan, Susan ! Don’t you know 
what manner of being a man is ? ” 

It was precisely what she did not know; and she did 
not quite relish the knowledge she was gaining. “ I 
know what the man I love must be,” she said, still 
coldly. “ Good-night, Mr. North,” and she laid her 


A LOVERS’ MEETING 


I2I 


hand on the door-handle. He seized it and held it still. 

You shall not go — you must not leave me, Susan, till 
you have forgiven me. You will forgive me, will you 
not? You must forgive me, dearest; my fault is noth- 
ing but my exceeding love for you. I am in your 
hands; you shall make of me what you will. You shall 
teach me to love you just as you choose; I will be all — 
all that you wish: only do not forsake me, Susan; do 
not leave me in anger. Say you forgive me, my best 
and dearest; my only hope, my only joy.” 

'' I forgive you ; I cannot help it,” said Susan slowly. 
‘'For I love you; I have said it. But Will — dear Wil- 
liam, if you want me to have any pleasure in my love, 
if you really love me and seek my happiness, you must 
study to love me in my way, not in yours.” 

“ I will, I will,” said her lover, fervently kissing her 
hand, and vowing a deep oath in his soul to frame him- 
self entirely by her wishes. He was too much moved 
for speech; but Susan felt his sincerity. She smiled 
at him ; gently drew away her hands, lightly stroked 
his bowed head ; and slipped through the door. Friend’s 
voice was calling them from the next room. 


CHAPTER XII 


Susan’s discovery 

Friend breakfasted early the next morning with Su- 
san, as he had to go to Southwark to prepare Sauvignac 
for their journey, and carried a tray up to his wife 
with her tea and toast daintily set forth. He stayed 
waiting on her and chatting while she ate it, and then 
departed to go about his errand. But on taking his 
coat down from its peg he discovered the lining was 
badly in need of repair, and asked Susan to stitch it up 
for him. 

Susan fetched her aunt’s rag-bag and sat down to 
execute the repairs. She felt proud to be working for 
so great a man, for Mrs. Friend never allowed any 
hand but her own to attend to her husband’s wardrobe. 
She looked out a suitable piece of stuff and cut away 
the worn part of the lining; and in doing so disclosed 
a secret pocket, the opening cunningly concealed in the 
usual one. But it was worn out too; there was a slit 
in it; and as she pulled away the lining she saw a paper 
that had slipped through and slidden down to the skirts 
of the coat. Susan had none of Mrs. Friend’s acqui- 
escence in her female incapacity to share his active life; 
nor, I am afraid, so fine a sense of honor as to refrain 
as she did from making any effort to know what Friend 
wished to remain dark. She had fastened with avidity 
on M. Sauvingnac’s partial disclosures, not from vulgar 
curiosity but from her eager desire to extend the grounds 
122 


SUSAN’S DISCOVERY 


123 


of her admiration. And here chance had put in her way 
a paper containing, it might be, the most thrilling of 
political secrets. “ Here’s a paper slipped down behind 
the lining of your coat,” she said. Friend, deep in his 
thoughts, did not hear. Smiling with a sense of daring 
and mischief, and strong in self-confidence since Will 
trusted her with his secrets, Susan unfolded the paper 
and read it. 

It was short and distinct; yet she read it again and 
again, unable to grasp its meaning. And yet she under- 
stood it too clearly; there was no room for misunder- 
standing. That was the dufficulty, for the thing was 
incredible. It ran: 

9 Germinal, An. XIV. 

M. le Comte de Mollien. 

Payez a M. Henri Dubois ou Tordre vingt mille 
francs. ‘‘ Napoleon.” 

She instantly recalled Sauvignac’s information that 
Friend was known in France by this name. There could 
be no other interpretation of the note than the obvious 
one ; unless indeed there could be a second Henri Doubois. 
The name was a common one enough; but if so, how 
came a Frenchman’s papers in her uncle’s pocket? It 
could not be. The world darkened around her. Sud- 
denly she saw the mysteries which had been so promising 
of pride and joy in a new aspect. Such secrecy could 
only be the mark of evil. It must be that her adored 
uncle, her ‘‘ Daddy Friend,” was a traitor in the pay of 
Napoleon. 

Her wrath flared up at the realization of a long course 
of treachery. She did not tremble; she was not dis- 
mayed. A frenzy of indignation and revolt possessed 
her. She would trample him under foot; she would 
cast the unclean thing into the abyss. Her passion gave 
her strength abundant. 


124 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

"‘You call yourself Henri Dubois in France?’^ she 
asked in a voice new to her. Startled at the tone even 
before the sense reached him, Friend looked up, and met 
such a blaze of scorn and reprobation that the sudden 
shock scattered his self-possession. He quailed before 
her. 

“Infamous traitor! Take your wages!’' she cried, 
flinging the crumpled paper at him. He pounced on it, 
straightened it, and cast one glance on it and on the 
empty grate, then thrust it into his mouth and gulped it 
down, furtive and shrinking under her gaze, yet glaring 
at her with a brazen defiance of his own shame horrible 
to see. Only for a moment ; yet it was enough to estab- 
lish the truth. 

“ It is true, then ? ” asked Susan, dominating over him. 
“You are afraid of me, now I have found you out? 
You are afraid to claim your wages?” 

As she spoke he recovered self-command. He sprang 
up and locked the door; then he turned to her, very 
pale, but himself again. “ My dear child, what are you ^ 
thinking of ? ” he asked. “ That bit of paper — it’s better 
out of the way; it might compromise somebody; but it 
has nothing to do with me.” He spoke rapidly and 
thickly, but his manner was coherent, persuasive, urgent. 

Susan looked at him coldly. “ Now I know you are 
lying,” she said. 

“Why, what do you think? What mad idea have 
you got into your head? Henri Dubois — was that the 
name? that is not I.” 

“That is your name in France — ^your name as Na- 
poleon’s spy. Oh, I know; your friend M. Sauvignac 
told us.” 

“Nonsense! You misunderstood him. It is true for 
a short time I borrowed the name — it was three years 
ago, during the peace, when I was in France on a secret 
errand from the Government; and Dubois and I changed 


SUSAN’S DISCOVERY 


125 


characters. He for some reason of his own wanted a 
disguise; I lent him my name and my overcoat: the 
paper was his, no doubt; I never knew he had left it 
there. I called myself Henri Dubois for a few days 
in Paris; and my French friends keep up the joke; I 
am always Dubois to them.'' 

‘‘ I don't believe a word of it," said Susan. I saw 
it in your face. You are a liar; I shall never believe a 
word you say again." 

He looked at her menacingly; but she sustained his 
gaze undaunted. He recognized a new development in 
the girl he had known ; her strength and spirit astonished 
him. He was obliged to exert himself against her, 
and threw all the terrors of his anger into his frown. 
She began to be conscious of her audacity in matching 
herself against such an opponent, but strung herself to 
stand up to him bravely. 

‘‘ Well, Susan," he said presently, speaking low and 
threateningly, remember at least that there are lives 
at stake. These are no times for playing with reputa- 
tions; a word now will bring a man to the gallows. 
It's not my own life I'm anxious about ; you can’t harm 
me; but remember your aunt's happiness depends on 
me. You would kill her if you told her of your 
fancies. There's young North too; his life hangs on 
mine." 

'‘How?" asked Susan coldly, "if, as you say, you 
are innocent ? " 

" Innocence won't do much for a man just now, Susan, 
if he is accused of treasonable relations with France. 
The nation is so agog with fright that the mere suspicion 
is enough to hang a man. I am all right ; I have been 
so useful to the authorities that I can't be spared; but 
Will North is new and a stranger; there'd be no influence 
at work to save his life." 

" Do you mean that if I accuse you, you will manage 


126 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

to shift the guilt on to him?'’ said Susan. '‘Are you 
wicked enough for that ? " 

"Nonsense; how do you think I could manage that? 
It's only that he is so well known as my friend and 
companion that what touches me must touch him. In 
political affairs, Susan, reputations are like a woman's ; 
a breath is enough to blast them. If a whisper of 
suspicion gets about, his prospects are at an end." 

" Better for him that they should be," replied Susan, 
" if you have anything to do with them." 

" Absurd ! You talk like a child, Susan ; you cannot 
understand. You are entirely mistaken as to the mean- 
ing of that bit of paper. I have nothing to do with 
Napoleon; nothing whatever. On my honor I swear it." 
He tried to throw a convincing air of sincerity into his 
words and looks, but he was conscious he was not equal 
to his usual standard. He was still unnerved by the 
shock of discovery. 

"For heaven's sake, don't swear! It's of no use; I 
don't believe you," she said. 

" Obstinate baggage ! Well, believe me or not as you 
like, wench — one thing you shall do, and that's to hold 
your tongue. You little know the mischief a single rash 
word would make." He gripped her by the arm and 
stood over her, menacing, terrible. Susan's strength 
deserted her. She burst into tears. 

" I only wish never to see you again ! " she sobbed. 
" Let me go away. It is a disgrace to have lived in the 
same house with you ! " 

He gave a contemptuous sounds half laugh, half snort. 

" It is ! " she declared. " I thought that I had honest 
blood in my veins ; and now I find I have been nourished 
on treason. Why did you not leave me to starve ? " 

" Silly, senseless child ! " he said with biting scorn. 
"You are not a baby, Susan, to talk such folly. Can't 
you speak sense ? " 


SUSAN’S DISCOVERY 


127 


Look here ! ’’ cried Susan, springing to her feet. '' Tell 
me now who I am and why you chose to adopt me. 
I suppose you had some bad, treacherous motive. I 
hope you had; I would rather you were black through- 
out. Who am I — who were my parents ? Why did you 
adopt me? You must tell me; I have the right to 
know ! ’’ 

Friend took a turn or two up and down the room, 
thinking deeply, his brow dark. Is it true that I have 
no friends — that my family perished in the Revolution? ” 
she pursued. Was my father a friend of yours? Per- 
haps he was an enemy; perhaps you killed him! Is 
that why you adopted me ? ’’ 

‘'No, no, child!’’ said Friend hastily. "Don’t jump 
to such ridiculous conclusions. Your father was a good 
friend of mine; it is just as I have always told you. 
But I may as well tell you the rest since you want to 
know; though whether you will like it when you hear 
it is another matter.” 

" I am not likely to like anything you are concerned 
in, I fancy,” said Susan. "But I choose to know; I 
won’t be duped any longer.” 

"Very well, miss; you shall have the truth; though 
your pride will come in for a nasty blow, I expect. I 
believe you know all about your mother; I have told 
you all that I know, at least. She was a Mile, de 
Marny ” 

"Yes, yes, I know that. That is true, then? And 
my father ? ” 

" You never had a father according to law, my dear,” 
said Friend with a hateful smile; "he omitted to go 
through the form of marriage with your mother, and 
consequently he does not count in your parentage in the 
eyes of society. His relatives naturally have chosen to 
ignore your existence, which they do not consider very 
creditable to them.” 


128 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Susan gazed at him with a whitening face. ‘‘ This is 
trues?” she asked. Friend turned away. ‘‘Yes, this 
is true,” he replied hurriedly and uneasily ; “ now you 
know your story and can understand why I have kept 
it from you hitherto. It is not a very agreeable one, 
you see.” 

“And was my father a Frenchman?” 

“No, English.” 

“ And a friend of yours. A worthy friend ! ” said 
Susan. 

“ Susan, you’re not to ” said Friend hastily, and 

stopped himself. “ Well? ” he began again. “ Are you 
satisfied now, or is there anything else you want to 
know ? ” 

“ I want to know this,” said Susan, trying to speak 
steadily. “ Why did you adopt me ? It seems I am a 
nameless and friendless orphan, and my existence is a 
crime and a disgrace. Why didn’t you leave me to per- 
ish with the rest? It would have been kinder.” She 
could not help her voice trembling at the last words. 

“ Oh, come, it’s not so bad as that, child,” said Friend 
consolingly. “Life is sweet; and as for birth, what 
does it matter? Who is there who knows or cares 
what your parentage was? You pass to all the world 
now as our daughter.” 

“Yes, and that is another disgrace,” she said pas- 
sionately. “ Born in shame, and brought up in 
infamy, — on the wages of treachery ! My life is 
poisoned.” 

“ Poisoned ! Rubbish ! You’ve got a fine set of 
tragedy airs from your romances.” 

“ They aren’t tragedy airs ! ” she exclaimed. “ It’s 
serious. You can’t understand, I suppose; but how am 
I ever to hold up my head again? I have no place 
among decent people. And as for passing as your 
daughter — if there could be anything more shameful 


SUSAN’S DISCOVERY 


129 

than such an origin, it would be to owe my life and up- 
bringing to a man like you.’’ 

Well, as for that, my dear,” replied Friend, you 
are not so much indebted to me as you might think. 
I’ve managed to make my profit out of you, you may 
be sure. You have relatives, you see, who were glad 
enough to get the scandal hushed up and have you 
brought up decently out of sight; and they’ve paid me 
tolerably handsomely for my trouble. So you can’t say 
you owe your upbringing to my benevolence exactly; 
your gratitude needn’t trouble you.” 

‘‘ I see,” said Susan bitterly. '' I begin to understand. 
I am glad to know it; now I can despise you as you 
deserve.” 

‘‘ With all my heart, my dear. But a small detail 
remains to be settled. A young lady of your sagacity 
must perceive that it is not to my interest that a story 
like this discovery of yours should get about. I want 
your assurance that not a word of it shall ever pass your 
lips.” 

“You want my assurance!” said Susan scornfully. 
“ And why, pray, should I give you that ? ” 

“ I think I can extort it,” he said with an ugly look. 
“ It is not only my life that is at stake, but others which 
you value higher. Will North’s, for instance.” 

“ I defy you to touch him ! ” cried Susan, springing to 
her feet. “ He is absolutely innocent; you cannot harm 
him; say what you like, I don’t believe it. You cannot 
touch him, I say.” 

Friend turned and took a few steps away from her, 
and coming back, began again with a complete change of 
manner. 

“ You misunderstand me entirely, Susan. Let us dis- 
cuss the matter sensibly; we’ve both of us lost our 
tempers over this nasty affair. I’m afraid I spoke to 
you rather brutally just now; but it pricks a man, Susan, 


130 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

to be causelessly suspected like this. You are abso- 
lutely wrong in your suspicions about that little bit of 
paper. I have explained to you how it was; why, any 
other interpretation is ridiculous. If you understood 
more about affairs, child, and could know something 
of all I have done during the last six years, you’d under- 
stand how preposterous the notion is. I in the pay of 
old Boney ! There’s not a man of my acquaintance who 
could believe it.” 

Oh, you are very clever,” said Susan. ‘‘You have 
deceived us all, no doubt. You may go on doing it with 
others ; but you can’t make me believe you again.” 

“ Perverse, obstinate girl ! But what’s the use of 
reasoning with a woman? If you were older, child, 
and wiser, you would see the justice of what I say. 
Well, I give it up. You will not be convinced, I see. 
I can only assure you you are wronging me deeply, 
Susan. Think what you will of me; I can’t help it. 
But one caution I must give you; beware how you 
breathe a word to Will North on this subject. You 
could not harm me, even though you sent your precious 
discovery abroad by the town-crier; there’s not a soul 
but would laugh at you, unless it were Will North. And 
it would be his ruin to quarrel with me.” 

“ Do you hold all his future prospects in your hand, 
then?” said Susan scornfully. 

“ I can do a good deal towards either making or mar- 
ring them, my dear; the lad hasn’t a friend but me; 
and without influence, who can get on in life? Let him 
quarrel with me and he is done for — can never hope to 
rise beyond a beggarly clerkship at fifty pounds a year. 
He might even lose that; there’s no telling.” 

“ And better so than rise through help of yours,” said 
Susan. 

“ You don’t know what an avalanche a careless word 
might set in motion, Susan. These are no ordinary 


SUSAN’S DISCOVERY 


131 

times; men’s minds are strained to the breaking-point. 
When once you start them on the hunt for treason, they 
won’t stop till they’ve tasted blood. The lad has no 
friends ; and his blunt honesty makes him ready to walk 
into any trap that’s laid for him. If he quarrels with 
me, how can I save him ? I shall be forced to vindicate 
my name; and he will pay the price. You don’t know 
what affairs are. I warn you, it is a serious matter. 
Not a word to him, then ; or, I assure you on my sacred 
word of honor, it will end in his death.” 

Susan was staggered. The vagueness of the danger 
made it look convincing. She did not for one moment 
doubt the truth of her discovery; but she did believe 
that Friend might have it in his power to ruin Will 
by way of revenge. She found herself trembling from 
head to foot. 

'' Let me go/’ she said very low. '' I must think.” 
She stood up and went blindly to the door. Friend 
watched her intently, wondering whether further pres- 
sure would serve him or would only harden her. She 
fumbled for the latch; the door was still locked. He 
laid his hand on it and turned the key for her, holding 
the door still closed. 

'' Remember, Susan,” he said, low and urgently, ‘‘ a 
single word to Will North, and you hang him.” He 
opened the door and she escaped. 

He passed his hand over his brow and heaved a deep 
sigh. “ A cursed awkward accident,’ he muttered, pac- 
ing up and down the room. ‘‘ A damned awkward acci- 
dent!” 

He began to review the position. ‘‘ She has no evi- 
dence; I’m in no danger from her. But if she starts 

North on the trail I can manage the boy by himself ; 

but I can’t have rumors getting about. And she’ll tell 
him; to a certainty she’ll tell him. She might talk 
him over if I let her get the chance; and then if he 


132 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

kicked up a row the fat ’ud be in the fire at once. No; 
I must keep the young people separate for the present. 
This Kentish journey is a happy chance. And I must 
so tighten my hold on him that he shall take my word 
against hers. I think I can do it; fatherly benevolence, 
man-of-the-world candor, and that sort of thing. He's 
an impressionable lad; any one who goes the right way 
to work can make his mind his own. Sukey can’t do 
that yet, for all her power over him. I shall have him 
all to myself down in Kent; luck’s been good to me 
there. There’s no one else she’d tell, is there? Not 
Polly — no, she’d never dare tell Polly. I think I’m safe 
from her. And then, when I’ve got Will on my side 
and the impression has worn off a bit, we may be able 
to persuade her that it’s all a mistake. What a spirited 
baggage it is! She’ll grow up a fine woman, will the 
little Susan. North will have his hands full with her.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE wife’s struggle 

Friend’s first care was to go down to the Admiralty 
Office and to suggest to Will's chief, Mr. Hunt, that 
they should all three dine at a coffee-house and spend 
the evening at the play by way of celebration of the 
Kentish journey; a piece of conviviality which had as 
its real motive the prevention of a farewell interview 
between Will and Susan. The invitation which would 
have looked inconsiderate and almost suspicious from 
himself, became an honor that could not be refused even 
if unwelcome, from the chief of the department. This 
arranged^ he hastened to the Running Horse Inn at 
Southwark to tell M. Sauvignac to make ready for the 
journey. 

But Susan had no such activities to distract her mind. 
She shut herself into her bedroom to brood over the 
changed aspect of her world, to realize the horror of the 
position. What weighed on her most heavily was the 
shame reflected on herself, and especially the facts she 
had learnt of her birth. She was particularly sensitive 
about matters of birth and family, having perhaps in- 
herited such susceptibilities, and certainly having im- 
bibed some from her aunt. With the one shock of 
seeing Friend turn before her face from an upright and 
benevolent protector into a treacherous villain, her love 
of him dropped dead. She tore him from her heart and 
dismissed him without a pang, without a regret; scorn 

133 


134 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

and indignation swallowed up even hate. But that she 
herself, instead of being the last survivor of a noble 
and honored, though ruined family, the innocent and 
stainless victim of misfortune, friendless, but on that 
very account the object of universal sympathy and pity, 
must own herself instead an abhorred and shocking thing, 
whose very existence was a crime — this was the blow 
she could not bring herself to endure. 

She would not go down to lunch; and Mrs. Friend 
came to see if she were ill, and to urge her to eat. 
Susan was most unwilling to confess her trouble, but 
she had to acknowledge she had one. It was impossible 
to tell her aunt anything of her discovery of the note 
from Napoleon; and when Mrs. Friend insisted with 
entreaties and all manner of persuasions on hearing what 
was the matter, she kept back that part of the story, and 
told her what she had learnt about her birth. 

Mrs. Friend was even more shocked than Susan had 
been; and not only because her views on such subjects 
were of the strictest. There was more to shock her 
than the mere fact of illegitimate birth. She could not 
say so to Susan; but she did not believe the story. 
Never a word of such a stain had her husband breathed 
to her; and she could conceive no motive he could have 
had for misleading her on the subject. He knew well 
that, however the facts might pain her, they would only 
incline her the more warmly to the helpless child who 
had suffered such a misfortune. She felt too from 
Susan’s manner that there had been something strange 
and even unnatural in the way her husband had told 
the tale. The child was evidently possessed with resent- 
ment and indignation; the shock had not been broken 
to her; and Mrs. Friend felt confident that of all men 
in the world, he under ordinary circumstances would 
have been the one to show the utmost delicacy, the 
greatest tenderness, in making such a revelation. He 


THE WIFE’S STRUGGLE 


135 


was capable of telling such a story in a rough unfeeling 
manner only if angered and using it as a weapon for 
revenge, or if repeating a concocted tale for the further- 
ance of some underhand scheme. She determined to 
wait till he came in and speak to him on the subject; 
but he was late, and fearful of annoying him, for he 
could not bear her to shorten her night’s rest on 
his account, she went to bed, but remained awake 
and eagerly listening for his return. At last he came 
in. 

‘‘ What, awake, Polly ? ” he said, when he saw her 
sitting up in bed. 

Yes, dearest; I have been waiting for you. I have 
something that I must ask you ; I could not go to sleep 
till I had seen you.” 

It should be something important to keep you awake 
at this hour of the night, little woman. It is past twelve. 
Well, what is it?” 

My love,” she said timidly, “ I want you to be so 
good as to tell me the whole story of Susan’s parentage, 
and why you adopted her,” 

He looked at her sharply. “ Why, Polly ? What’s 
she been saying?” 

‘‘ I found the child in sad trouble this morning, my 
love. She has been shut up in her room all day, weep- 
ing and grieving. And the cause is, something she has 
heard from you about her birth.” 

‘‘What did she tell you?” said Friend quickly. 

“ That you had told her she is the illegitimate child 
of an English father and a French mother.” 

“ And was that all ? ” 

“ Those were all the facts ; the rest was only about 
her existence being a disgrace to her relations.” 

“ Well, that’s all there is, my love. I’m sorry I had 
to tell the child, and sorry she is so grieved about it ; 
but I can’t help it. She asked me herself to tell her. 


136 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Those are the facts ; and I suppose she had to know them 
some time or other.” 

But, my dearest life ” began Mrs. Friend. 

‘‘Well, Polly?” 

“ I can’t understand it. I want you to explain it to 
me. Who, then, was her father? You have always 
told me he was a friend of yours. And why did you 
adopt her ? ” 

“ Look here, Polly,” said Friend, his brow darkening; 
“ I’d rather you asked no more questions. You know 
I have chosen to keep silence about Susan’s family. 
Let that be enough for you ; I have good reasons, you 
may be sure.” 

“ My dearest, I must ask. It is for the child’s sake. 
She sits grieving, and how can I comfort her? I cannot 
.sit still and do nothing when my child is in trouble. Tell 
me all ; you know you can trust me ; and I have a right 
to know.” 

“ But I have told you ; for goodness’ sake what more 
does the woman want ? ” 

“ Dearest, the story is not complete as it stands. I 
can’t believe it. You never breathed a word of this to 
me when you first brought Susan home. You told me 
she was the child of your friends; you spoke of her 
mother with respect.” 

“ I didn’t want you to know, of course, Polly, because* 
I knew how you felt about these things. I was afraid 
you’d take a dislike to the child.” But he overdid it; 
she interrupted indignantly. “ No, you did not. You 
knew me better than that. If this story had been true 
you would have told me then. It is not true; you are 
lying to me. Friend, tell me the truth.” Then sud- 
denly she changed her tone. “ Husband, you must tell 
me. You owe it to me. The child lies there weeping, 
and I cannot comfort her. I must know all the truth. 
Don’t put me off with lies. Would you have me utterly 


THE WIFE’S STRUGGLE 


137 


despise you? When have I been false to you? Friend, 
it is unworthy of you; it is unworthy of our love. As 
you value my respect, husband — as you value our mar- 
riage, you must tell me the truth now.’' 

He seated himself on the bedside and took her hands, 
looking down into the reproach and trouble of her 
eyes. 

I will never lie to you again, Polly, as I’m a living 
man,” he said. There was a pause. “What is it that 
you want to know ? ” 

“ The whole truth about Susan. Who she is ; who 
were her parents — and about her birth ; why you adopted 
her.” 

He was silent again, still holding her hands in his. 

“ Polly,” he said at last, “ I will tell you all if you 
want to know; but do you think you’re wise in asking? 
I warn you you won’t like it. You know, my love. I’m 
mixed up in many queer doings, not the sort of things 
for your ears; and if I’ve been silent and told you lies 
now and then, and really, when I come to think of it, 
I haven’t told you very many), it’s been as much to 
spare you pain as for my own convenience. Can’t you 
be content, dear, to go on so? To know that though 
I’m not what you’d like me to be in the world and public 
affairs, yet you’ve got a husband who’s as good to you 
as he knows how to be, and who loves you with all his 
soul ? ” 

She paused a moment. “ No, dear,” she replied. “ I 
have lived on those terms for so many years; I can live 
so no longer. Oh, don’t think, my dearest, that I have 
not seen and known ! I knew from the first — from the 
first months we were married, that you were not good — 
not honest. You could not hide it from me. But now 
it concerns my child ; I must know all the truth, however 
it hurts me. Even if it should divide me from you — 
you dearer than my own soul — I must hear.” 


138 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

‘‘ Well, Polly,” he said with a sigh. By the way, 
this will shock you. Susan is the daughter of Mr. 
Armour, Lord Mountstephen’s only son, who went to 
France and perished in the Revolution.” 

‘'Good heavens ! ” cried Mrs. Friend. “ Then that 
man at Brighton — was he — was he related to her?” 

“Yes; he is her half-brother.” 

“ Good heavens ! ” she cried again, overwhelmed. 
“How horrible!” 

“ Well, you know, Polly, there was no harm done.” 

“ Harm ! The mere thought It is unutterable ! ” 

“ Come, dear, you needn’t take on so. No harm came 
of it. Neither of them knew; he couldn’t have a suspi- 
cion. He meant no harm.” 

“No harm! O Friend!” 

“ Well, I mean, no more harm than that sort of beast 
always means. He wouldn’t call it harm. He’s a low 
brute, to be sure ; but they’re all like that ; he’s no worse 
than the rest. He was shocked enough when I let him 
into the secret.” 

“Then that was why he apologized so abjectly?” 

“ That was why.” 

“ And Susan — oh, poor Susan ! Does she know ? ” 

“ Not that bit. I did not tell her who her father 
was ; and she never asked.” 

“ Poor child, poor child! O Friend, this is terrible! ” 

“ Well, dear, I wish there was nothing to tell that 
would pain you more. I knew you’d dislike it; still 
really, you know, there’s no harm done. There’s no 
sense in grieving for a might-have-been.” 

“ Don’t, don’t ! ” she cried, warding off the thought 
with her hand. “ Well, what else is there? ” 

“ I suppose you want to hear how she was born, and 
how I came to take her.” 

“Yes, please. Is there any more disgrace there?” 

“Not in her birth, at any rate. You may make your 


THE WIFE’S STRUGGLE 


139 


mind easy there. Her father was lawfully enough mar- 
ried to her mother, who was a young friend and pro- 
tegee of Madame Roland's, Citoyenne Suzanne Marny. 
Her father — young Armour, you know — was bitten with 
Revolutionary ideas; he'd been in France early in the 
eighties, and was an ardent Rousseauite and a follower 
of your friends Tom Paine and Godwin. Well, his 
father^ old Lord Mountstephen, was alarmed when he 
saw what opinions he was forming, and sent for him 
home ; married him to a suitable heiress of sound views, 
a Miss Scrimgeour, of which marriage young Evelyn 
is the issue — and hoped, I suppose, he'd got him tight. 
But it wasn't a happy marriage; the wife was a regular 
shrew; she had a tongue like a gadfly, and took par- 
ticular delight in saying venomous things about his philo- 
sophical friends. He couldn't stand it ; he bolted at last 
and went back to France. She died fortunately in 
the nick of time, and he married Susan's mother. I 
suppose he’d have done it sooner if he could; but he 
was an honorable fellow; you needn't fear any ante- 
matrimonial connection you'd object to. There was 
nothing of that sort about him; deserting his wife was 
the worst thing he ever did; and that he was fairly 
driven to. He never told his father of his second 
marriage; all intercourse was broken off; the old man 
solemnly cursed him and forbade all mention of him 
from the time he ran away. Well, Susan was born. 
But he'd thrown himself heart and soul into the Revolu- 
tion; he had no sort of prudence, and heads were flying 
in all directions just then. He’d identified himself with 
the Girondists, and when they fell he perished too." 

“Well? And what led you to take Susan?" 

“ Why, my dear, this is the part you won't like. Of 
course she was my friend's orphan and all that; Fd 
promised the poor fellow to do what I could for his wife 
and child, and I arranged their escape and got them safely 


140 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

away; only the poor thing died on the passage. We 
had a terrible crossing that night, and she was worn 
out with all she had been through. Well, there was 
the little Susan without a friend in the world; and it 
struck me I could make a good thing out of her. Lord 
Mountstephen was devoted to his grandson; he’d deter- 
mined to make no mistake with his bringing up ; at last 
he’d have an heir who should do him credit and hand 
down his name with luster. Also he’d believe anything 
against his unfortunate son. So I wrote and told him 
about Susan, about the French marriage and all; only” 
— a look of irrepressible delight and cunning twinkled in 
his eye — '' according to my version, the marriage took 
place seven years earlier, during the first visit to France 
and before the marriage to Miss Scrimgeour. 

“ So you see/’ he resumed, the poor old gentleman 
thought his beloved heir was supplanted, and that by 
what he hated most on earth, the offspring of a French 
revolutionist. He made inquiries, of course; but I’d 
got my tale straight enough and brought a respectable 
witness. And the Revolution had swept all traces away. 
No one could disprove my witness’s evidence but my- 
self, who knew the real truth. When he found he 
couldn’t get over the facts, all he thought of was hush- 
ing them up. He agreed to make me a handsome al- 
lowance yearly for Susan’s keep, and paid me a good 
round sum down for agreeing to suppress my evidence 
of the marriage and to call her illegitimate. You see 
it’s all in the bargain to tell her she’s a natural child; 
if I told her anything I had to tell her that. Oh, I’ve 
done well through Susan, without reckoning on what 
her marriage might have brought me.” 

‘‘And her marriage?” gasped Mrs. Friend. “That 
fortune you would have given her — the twenty thousand 
pounds ? ” 

“ Screwed it out of old Mountstephen, of course,” 


THE WIFE’S STRUGGLE 


141 


chuckled Friend. ‘‘ At least, a matter of near ten thou- 
sand I have put by for her, made up of what the old 
sinner gave me and what Fve saved and added to it; 
it's been rolling up at compound interest. Fve always 
intended it for Susan if I could see my way to helping 
myself with a good match for her. But Raby's was 
such a veiy good match that I meant to do things hand- 
somely; so I should have put the screws on old Mount- 
stephen to the tune of another ten thousand. I don't 
think it would have been any use to ask for more; it 
would have needed pretty good management to get that ; 
for he would have no wish to see his granddaughter 
Countess of Sandown. He wanted her kept quiet in 
the background. Well, it's a lucky thing for him the 
matter fell through." 

‘‘ Good God ! Then all this time you have been re- 
ceiving large sums of money from Lord Mountstephen 
for entering into a conspiracy to keep Susan out of her 
rights ? " 

‘‘Not her real rights^ you know; she has none, for 
she's the child of the second marriage and quite un- 
provided for; but what he thinks her rights. He be- 
lieves that his son was already married at the time of 
his supposed marriage with Miss Scrimgeour and that 
his beloved Evelyn is consequently a bastard." 

“ Oh, hush, hush ! Don't say any more ! What a 
wretch he must think you ! " 

“ Oh, his ill opinion don’t weigh upon me," said Friend 
cheerfully. “ I'm pretty well quits with him there. The 
old sinner ! " 

“ Good God ! " she exclaimed. “ And you have actu- 
ally done this ? " 

He was smitten with compunction. “ I knew you 
wouldn't like it, Polly," he said ruefully. “ I wanted to 
keep it from you ; but you would have it." 

“ Keep it from me — ^yes, with more lies. Oh, better 


142 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

far know all; better know the worst. Christ! And 
you are just the same; you are the man I love!’’ 

She stared at him wildly for a few seconds, and then 
threw herself down in bed and drew the clothes over 
her head. She did not reproach him. Long ago when 
they were first married she used to reproach him, to 
try to waken some sense of shame ; but she only irritated 
him without producing any good effect. She realized at 
last she was imperiling their love, and losing the little 
chance of influence that remained. She resigned her- 
self to believing that she was absolutely powerless over 
him. Only when on what she believed to be her death- 
bed had she hoped she might acquire a new hold. But 
that hope too was in vain. His soul was dead; it was 
not to be stirred by any emotion born of earth. 

It was dreadful to remain in bed, warm and softly 
covered, with such pangs tearing her soul. It was 
dreadful that he should lie beside her like a lover, not 
stirring lest he should disturb her, ready with his love, 
his care, if she should want anything; with his tireless 
strength, his perfect unselfishness at her disposal for 
her slightest wish. If he would only have ill-treated 
her — have been brutal to her! Had she been alone she 
would have thrown herself on the floor and beaten her 
head on the boards, grasping greedily at cold and pain 
to blunt the force of her inner anguish. But if she 
were to show the least sign of distress he would be upon 
her with his terrible kindness, his unendurable solicitude. 
So she lay still and silent, winding the bedclothes tightly 
over her face and forcing them into her mouth to clench 
her teeth on them and keep in the passion that struggled 
in her throat. ‘'Oh, base, base, base ! ” she was crying 
inwardly. “ Unprincipled ; sordid ; base of soul ! Is 
there any depth of shame too low for him?” 

It was not the shock of novelty to her. It is impos- 
sible to live with a man in loving intimacy for year 


THE WIFE’S STRUGGLE 


143 


after year, however uncommunicative he may be, with- 
out becoming aware of the set of his mind, the outlines 
of his character, his attitude to things of lasting import. 
She had long ago discovered him to be destitute of con- 
science, destitute of religion, barren of ideals, incapable 
of honor. 

'' And yet ” — the words rose to her tongue and she 
choked them with the sheet — '' base as he is, the most 
generous, the most lovable of men ! ” 

He lay beside her without a sound. She knew he was 
awake, for she could always tell by his deep, regular 
breathing when he slept. He was listening for her, 
waiting for some sign of grief that he could comfort. 
She would let none escape her ; comfort could not come 
from him. 

Dear Christ ! ’’ she cried in her heart, look on him, 
save him, though it be through any agony of mine. Take 
my life if only his heart may be touched; Thou knowest 
it would be bliss to die for him! I offer myself for 
him; take my life, torture me, crucify me; but save my 
husband ! ’’ 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE WEAKNESS OF WILLIAM NORTH 

Friend was up betimes in the morning, took a silent 
leave of his wife in a warm embrace to which she sadly 
submitted, breakfasted alone, and was off to meet Will 
at the Admiralty Office at nine o’clock. 

Then they rode on towards Southwark^ where they 
picked up M. Sauvignac at the Running Horse Inn. 
Friend explained to Will that he was to travel under the 
name of Mr. David Morgan from Carnarvon, in order 
that his slight foreign accent might pass unremarked; 
trusting that, little as people moved from their homes, 
they were not likely to run across any one well ac- 
quainted with the English of a Welshman. 

Will rode in the highest spirits, which were augmented 
by Friend’s genial tone towards him. He was con- 
scious of an uplifting of his whole being since his inter- 
view with Susan; he glowed with moral exhilaration as 
if he had been subjected to a sort of spiritual cold bath. 
The day was fair ; larks sang overhead ; haymakers were 
at work in the fields ; the air was full of fragrance ; and 
scents, sights, and sounds were all to him so filled with 
the thought of Susan that they seemed to chant her 
name aloud, and it was with difficulty that he kept him- 
self from joining in the song. Friend entered into his 
feelings with the warmest sympathy. He made allu- 
sions, veiled on account of their companion’s presence 
but which Will well understood, to Susan and to the 
144 


WEAKNESS OF WILLIAM NORTH 145 

time when she should be his wife. He seemed to take 
for granted that that ineffable happiness was close at 
hand. His manner made Will feel that he had adopted 
him into the inmost circle of his affections. He dis- 
played an absolute interest in his feelings, a kind of 
eagerness for his confidence; there was something ap- 
proaching deference about his sympathy immensely flat- 
tering to Will, who told himself it was all for Susan’s 
sake, and perceived that she must be better beloved, a 
more important figure to her guardian than he had real- 
ized. And yet there was not a word or a tone out of 
character; nothing obsequious or overstrained; nothing 
that came unnaturally from an older and experienced 
man to a young one. 

But M. Sauvignac was not the man to ride in silence ; 
and though for the first hour Will’s flow of talk and 
Friend’s encouragement of it gave him scant opportunity 
to join in a conversation of which the inspiration was a 
circumstance unknown to him, he put in remarks wher- 
ever he could and little by little turned it into more 
general channels. It was evident that, whatever might 
be the precise situation which shaped his companions’ 
talk, love and the other sex were concerned in it; and 
these were subjects he regarded as peculiarly his own. 
Loquacious by nature, he must talk, and on no topic 
with such eagerness and pleasure as on this. He brought 
in apposite anecdotes ; he launched into praises of lovely 
woman; he grew poetic, dithyrambic, in celebration of 
her charms. Gradually he absorbed the principal share 
of the conversation. 

They stopped at Orpington to dine and rest their 
horses; and Mr. Morgan, overflowing with good spirits, 
began to pay a spirited court to the landlady, a buxom 
widow of forty. He overwhelmed her with his compli- 
ments, declared himself forever her slave, and swore 
he could not live without her; while she laughed and 


146 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

called him an impudent rascal, and declared he wanted 
some one to box his ears for him. Mr. Morgan thereon 
entreated her to do him that favor herself; but she was 
obdurate and retreated to her private corner behind the 
bar, whither he had not the temerity to follow. Will 
could not help laughing and applauding his siege, and 
encouraging him to pursue her. Friend looked on in 
silence with a sort of indulgent scorn. 

They took horse again after dinner and rode on to- 
wards Seven Oaks, where they intended to pass the 
night. The stream of Mr. Morgan's loquacity was by 
no means checked; he talked on as gaily as ever, but 
his conversation now turned from the general to the 
particular. He became autobiographical, and narrated 
his conquests and adventures among the fair sex with 
irresistible broad humor and gusto: and though the 
matter of his tales was free even to license, he avoided 
actual grossness m the manner of telling them. Will, 
at least, who had suffered from a wide experience of 
foul talk, was not offended. Many of the adventures 
threw him into ecstasies of laughter; and^ delighted by 
his wit and vivacity, he encouraged him to proceed. 
Friend listened with a grim scornful smile, but said 
nothing; and in the best of spirits the travelers drew 
up at the Crown Inn at Seven Oaks. 

It was the very model of an English inn. A jolly 
stout red-faced host led the way into a cool wainscoted 
parlor, where the dark oak gleamed with much polishing, 
and a great jug of honeysuckle stood in the empty 
grate. Friend and Mr. Morgan threw themselves, one 
into a cushioned armchair, the other on the high-backed 
oaken settle by the fireplace^ while Will seated himself 
near the open window and enjoyed the scent of the 
roses which climbed around it. The prettiest possible 
serving-maid, with tight trim waist and short skirts 
showing her neat ankles, shook out a snowy cloth and 


WEAKNESS OF WILLIAM NORTH 147 

began laying the table for supper, shedding knives and 
forks into their places with marvelous dexterity, and 
tripping in and out of the room with a gait as dainty 
as a water-wagtail’s. Mr. Morgan’s attention was 
aroused. Let me help you, my dear ! ” he exclaimed, 
jumping up and forgetting his weariness. So fair a pair 
of hands were never meant to work while we sit idle.” 

The maid demurely refused his assistance, but he 
would not be denied. Showering his compliments upon 
her, he seized a pile of platters and began setting them 
on the table at random. Will laughed at his clumsy ef- 
forts ; the maid discreetly sniggered as she left the room 
for further supplies. Mr. Morgan sank again into his 
armchair. “ What grace she has, that girl ! ” he sighed. 
“ How she trips across the room ! Did you ever see 
such feet and ankles? Ah, your English inns; what 
women they boast ! ” 

“ She will drive the landlady of the Bear at Orpington 
out of your head,” said Will. 

Out of my head perhaps, but not from my heart : 
my heart is large enough to contain all — all,” said Mr. 
Morgan ; “all the charming, provoking, enchanting sex ! 
Ah, here she comes, the little witch. My angel, suffer 
me to relieve you of that tray; it is too heavy for your 
delicate arms.” He sprang forward to take the tray 
from her, but grasping it awkwardly, it fell to the 
ground. Bread, butter, cheese, a round of beef, and 
plates and dishes in fragments rolled on the floor. Will, 
roaring with laughter, hastened to the rescue. The 
pretty maid was quite cross. “ It’s all your fault for 
interfering,” she said pettishly to Mr. Morgan. “ Gentle- 
men ought to know their place and not meddle till they’re 
wanted. This gentleman now has more sense,” pointing 
to Will ; “ he can lend a hand when it’s needed ; but 
he wouldn’t put a poor girl out with his silly talk and 
go dropping things about the floor.” 


148 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Not he/’ said Will gallantly, “ and yet he knows a 
pretty girl when he sees one just as well.” 

Mr. Morgan’s contrition was overwhelming. Between 
them they picked up the eatables and set the table, Will 
now joining in the task and setting himself to soothe 
the injured feelings of the maid, who was not to be 
appeased by his companion’s gallantries. To Will’s at- 
tempts at consolation, however, she lent a favorable ear. 
Sauvignac was, or pretended to be, piqued at her prefer- 
ence; and Will out of gaiety and mischief rose to the 
situation and carried on a lively flirtation which lasted 
throughout the meal. When they had finished, and the 
wine was placed upon the table, their waitress withdrew 
and the host came in to inquire after their comfort and 
to be asked to take a glass with them; but he found 
his company very poor performers at the bottle, and had 
to resign himself to letting them rise from the table 
sober. Friend was unusually abstemious; Will had al- 
ready remarked that not only had he never seen him 
drunk, but he had never known him to take more than 
a couple of glasses at a sitting. Mr. Morgan was nat- 
urally free from the national vice of Englishmen; and 
Will himself, though not averse to a social glass, was at 
his age in no way bound to it. 

It was still early. Friend had lighted a pipe and was 
lying back in an easy-chair, his legs stretched across 
another, enjoying the fragrant wreaths of smoke as he 
slowly emitted them from his lips. Tobacco was his 
sole and rare indulgence, reserved for occasions like the 
present He never smoked at home; the least whifif of 
tobacco upset his wife. Nor did Will share his enjoy- 
ment of it at this moment. The scent of hayfields and 
of roses came in at the window and called him with a 
stronger attraction ; the light still lingered in the western 
sky He went out and paced the quiet village street. 
It was silent and deserted ; the young moon hung sharp 


WEAKNESS OF WILLIAM NORTH 149 

as a sickle in the sky. Will's brain, kindled and glowing 
with thoughts of Susan, revolted from the idea of sleep. 
He felt himself encircled by a glowing cloudy an illusive 
promise of happiness that glorified even while it mocked 
him. His kingdom lay before him, a joy greater than 
dreams could hold out; the very air about him quick- 
ened with promise. Susan ! Susan ! " sang his heart ; 
and the thought of her seemed to whirl him from the 
earth in fiery gusts. He returned to the inn. The 
jolly red-faced host was locking the stable door; in the 
house his companions were leaving the parlor to go to 
bed. The pretty maid came with candles to light them 
upstairs; Mr. Morgan followed her; Friend lingered to 
give the landlord directions about breakfast in the morn- 
ing, and a loose nail in one of the horses' shoes. Over- 
coming his reluctance, for there was clearly no use in 
sitting up. Will went upstairs. The maid was still 
detained in the room assigned to Friend and Mr. Morgan. 
He was asking for a warming-pan, a request she ap- 
peared to think unreasonable in the middle of July. 
Anyhow, Will heard a good deal of laughter and remon- 
strance and the words, “ Go along with you ! " and '' Have 
done with your impudence ! " and their not unnatural 
sequence, the sound of a romping scuffle. But it seemed 
unduly prolonged, and ended unexpectedly in a terrified 
scream, and the girl rushing headlong into the room 
where Will was waiting, hotly pursued by Mr. Morgan,, 
whom he only baffled by slamming the door in his face. 

What's the matter ? Has the gentleman been rude 
to you?" he inquired, as the maid burst into loud sobs. 
“ There, don’t cry, my dear ; there's no harm done." 
He drew near her to console her. 

‘‘ He's taken my locket ; he snatched away my locket ; 
nasty, violent wretch ! " she sobbed out. Her cap and 
the handkerchief that covered her bosom showed con- 
siderable disarray. 


150 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Well, never mind, my dear ; HI get it back for you. 
HI make him give it up. Come, don’t cry; put your 
kerchief straight/’ said Will. She was apparently sob- 
bing too violently to obey him, and he tried to do it him- 
self. My locket!” she cried, looking up at him ap- 
pealingly. It had my mother’s portrait in it ; my 
father had it took only a month afore she died; and 
he will be so angry if I’ve lost it! ” She was in great 
distress. 

You shan’t lose it ; I’ll make him give it back. Never 
you fret, my dear,” said Will consolingly. He had to 
bend over her and speak kindly; his arm stole round 
her; whether she invited him or not he did not quite 
know, but it seemed inevitable that he should end his 
comfortings with a kiss. And the kiss had more effect 
in cheering her than even his promise to recover the 
locket; her head rested confidingly on his shoulder and 
her face turned to his. His other arm suddenly clasped 
her; he forgot that his task was only one of comfort. 

Friend had come upstairs a moment before. What’s 
that noise I heard? Where’s North?” he asked Sau- 
vignac. 

‘'Noise, my friend? What noise did you hear?” 

“The girl cried out. You’ve been playing some of 
your pranks, Sauvignac.” 

“ And what harm, my dear fellow ? Is it forbidden to 
play pranks with a pretty rogue like that charming 
girl?” 

“Yes, it is, when the game makes her scream.” 

“ Oh, it was not the game she screamed at ; I was the 
wrong playfellow, it appears. She has got hold of the 
right one now, and you see she does not scream.” 

Friend strode to Will’s room and called him, laying 
his hand on the latch. Will sprang to the door and 
shot the bolt. “ Oh, goodness ! ” cried the girl, taking 
fright. “ Whatever are you agoing to do, sir ? ” She 


WEAKNESS OF WILLIAM NORTH 15 1 

hastily smoothed her hair and twitched her kerchief 
straight, and darted out of the room by a second door. 
Friend knocked authoritatively. Will in a fury mut- 
tered an oath and hesitated ; but the girl was gone. He 
reluctantly drew the bolt back and let Friend in. He 
looked keenly round the room and then bent his eye on 
Will. 

“ What’s this, North? ” he said. ‘‘ What have you to 
do with Mr. Morgan’s gallantries? And why did you 
fasten your door ? ” 

“ The girl screamed,” stammered Will sulkily and a 
good deal confused. She ran in here to escape from 
your friend ; and I bolted the door to protect her.” 

” Oh ; you bolted your door in my face to protect her, 
did you ? I think she found that open one a better pro- 
tection. Look here, North, I have thought well of you; 
but if I see you running after every petticoat that comes 
in your way, I shall retract my good opinion.” 

'‘Running after a petticoat? What d’ye mean?” ex- 
claimed Will. 'T had to soothe the girl ; she was in a 
sad taking because your friend Mr. Morgan had snatched 
a locket or some such trinket from her neck; all I did 
was to try and comfort her. I never asked her to come 
in here.” 

" That may be ; but I don’t see why you must bolt the 
door while you comfort her. You carried your con- 
solations too far.” 

" Well, and if a kiss or so did pass, is that any such 
mighty matter ? ” 

" It depends upon circumstances. North. Must I re- 
mind you that your kisses are bespoken? Every one 
you give to another woman is stolen from Susan. I 
am jealous for my girl, North; I will give her to no 
light-o’-love.” 

" I am no light-o’-love ! ” exclaimed Will, his con- 
science pricking him sharply. " I swear to you, Mr. 


152 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Friend, I love Susan with every thought of my soul and 
every drop of blood in my body. No other woman can 
ever be anything to me, any idle trifling you may have 
caught me in notwithstanding. That girl is nothing to 
me; absolutely nothing. If you doubt my love to my 
divine Susan because of the nonsense of a minute, you 
wrong me — on my soul you wrong me.” 

You have got to learn, my boy, to restrain yourself 
from the nonsense of a minute and idle trifling. I don't 
doubt you love Susan after your fashion; but when I 
see a man pledging himself to one woman one day and 
trifling with a chambermaid the next, I call him a light- 
o'-love, and I think it's a mild term. That's not the 
sort of affection worthy of my girl. Pray how would 
you have liked her to have seen you just now?” 

Will was silent. 

‘‘ You have been a little carried off your feet, my lad, 
with Sauvignac's frothy talk. You must be on your 
guard against him; he's a good fellow, but that's his 
weak side. Frenchmen are often like that; they think 
it due to their character to appear men of gallantry. 
The best of them do it. When an Englishman talks 
bawdy you know he's a bad egg; but it's not the same 
across the Channel.” 

But Mr. Morgan did not talk — he did not say a single 
indecent word/' said Will. 

‘‘No; it might have been better if he had. You'd 
not have listened to him then. It's all the same thing. 
Will. If you want to make yourself worthy of a good 
woman, you must resist the beginnings of mischief. It's 
no use thinking you can pull yourself up half-way.” 

Will made no reply. Friend bade him good-night and 
left him. Will heard the door of the next room open 
and close, and a murmur of voices began to sound 
through the wall and continued far into the night. Will 
imagined Mr. Morgan to be receiving his share of the 


WEAKNESS OF WILLIAM NORTH 153 

lecture; but before he dropped asleep concluded they 
could not have so much to say on that topic. As it 
happened he was entirely wrong; it was a very different 
matter that occupied them. 

To his credit be it said that his admiration of Friend 
was increased by his rebuke. At the first attack indeed 
he made light of the incident, and protested to himself 
as well as to Friend there was no reason for his inter- 
ference ; but he had the candor presently to acknowledge 
that the intervention was timely. He wondered at 
Friend's strictness of view. His life had hitherto 
brought him against no such men. He did not drink; 
he did not swear; North had never yet heard a blas- 
phemous or even a free expression from his mouth, a 
singularity in that age which could not fail to strike 
him. And yet his strength and courage were as con- 
spicuous as those of any hero of the prize-ring; in 
energy, daring, power, all the masculine virtues as he 
understood them, he rivaled the best of his old associates. 
Will was an impressionable youngster, remarkably open 
to good influences and prone to hero-worship: and the 
new illustration of Friend's character, strange to his old 
standards though it was, brought a glow to his thoughts 
of him which had been lacking. Forthwith he elevated 
him into the position of an example, and vowed if 
strength were lent him, to form himself on so excellent 
a pattern. Alas, poor Will! 

Meanwhile the chosen model was conversing with 
Sauvignac in the French tongue. ‘‘You must get me 
a glance at the papers carried by your guileless young 
friend, mon cher” said Sauvignac. 

“ Certainly, monsieur ; it can no doubt be managed 
before long," replied Friend. “ We only wait a good 
opportunity." 

“ But what opportunity can be better than this ? Here 
we have every possible condition." 


154 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

^'How? Here? To-night?’’ 

I thought you were arranging it just now; why did 
you not? Surely the thing is simple enough. Now we 
must wait here another night, I suppose, and try to- 
morrow.” 

“ Do you mean that he should have been my bedfellow 
instead of you? I wanted to talk over our plans with 
you ; and it is risky work ferreting about among a sleep- 
ing man’s things.” 

‘‘ That it certainly is unless you are prepared to silence 
him in case he wakes; I did not mean that. No, we 
must get him to leave us his wallet unwatched. Surely 
you see what I would do.” 

‘‘No; what?” 

“Why, decoy him away from his room; get him to 
leave his wallet behind, thinking all secure and all the 
house asleep but himself. The thing is perfectly simple ; 
Providence itself has provided the bait we want. You 
must understand me! You are no simpleton, mon ami 
Dubois. Why, then — find out where that pretty cham- 
bermaid sleeps, and let him know.” 

Friend looked at him with a stare of freezing cold- 
ness^ *and said shortly. “ Think of another plan, 
m’sieur.” 

“Nay, it is your part to think of plans, mon cher. You 
are the man of intellect, of resource; what am I com- 
pared to you? You do not like my plan; well then, 
suggest another.” 

“ It is hot weather,” said Friend. “We can halt for 
our lunch and a rest by some brook or pool. Then you 
can propose a dip to him ; and I will mind his wallet for 
him while he is in the water.” 

“ Ah, you will mind his wallet very well 1 ” laughed 
Sauvignac. “ That might do, if only we are sure to pass 
a brook or pool. But your plan is not so neat, so sure to 
escape suspicion as mine, I must insist, my friend.” 


WEAKNESS OF WILLIAM NORTH 155 

“ Your plan won’t do, and there’s an end of it,” said 
Friend. We can go by Tildesden and pass Poleshanger 
wood and pool. We must start early, or it’ll be too near 
dinner time to make a halt seem natural. It’ll all be 
perfectly simple; and you can take a copy of the letters 
at your leisure. Better put the originals back when 
you’re done with them; if we alarm him we shall lose 
him for future use.” 

‘‘Yes, we will not alarm our milch cow. Good beast! 
He little guesses the service he is doing to our Cause,” he 
sniggered. “ You do well to be kind to so valuable an 
animal, mon ami. You treat him as a father — as if he 
were a precious only son, the very apple of your eye. I 
was half angry when I saw you make so much of him this 
morning. I did not comprehend the fineness of your 
game. Ah, you are a man, mon vieux! Would I had 
half your brains! ” 

“ One must be careful of one’s tools,” replied Friend. 
“ And now, m’sieur, for the next step. My young friend 
expects to find Pitt at Folkestone. We will accompany 
him as far as Hythe, where I’ll ship you oil in my little 
trading cutter, the All's Well. I should rarely like to 
take you to Folkestone and despatch you under the very 
nose of Pitt; but I don’t know the men there. Hythe’s 
the safer game. And I have another reason; I want 
to show you on the way the scene of our little arrange- 
ment. We will stop at Aldington, a village a few miles 
from Hythe, where I have good friends, and where you 
can survey the ground and report accordingly to the 
Emperor.” 

“ Good, mon cher. And what am I to report ? ” 

“ He knows the scheme already. It’s like this.” And 
Friend briefly outlined his plot. For some years he had 
been intimately connected with the smugglers and smug- 
gling trade in the district of the Kentish marshes, having 
made their acquaintance for the sake of the facilities 


156 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

they afforded for secret journey ings to the Continent. 
He masked his real object by becoming a sharer in the 
traffic, and was joint partner with two of the most noted 
smugglers of the neighborhood in the ownership of a 
cutter^ the All's Well of Hythe. Under the nickname of 
'' Squire Wood he was well known to all the principal 
traders in contraband of that coast, lawless and desperate 
characters, who were famous for their daring and de- 
fiance of the Revenue officers. The conflicts between 
them and the authorities had been many and sanguinary ; 
not infrequently several hundred men engaged; and it 
was Friend’s intention to organize a fight on so large a 
scak, that the military should be called in to quell the 
disturbance, and while the troops were thus engaged, to 
give a signal to Napoleon that he might land unopposed. 
There was no difficulty in finding the necessary numbers ; 
all he had to do was to arrange for a cargo of special 
value to be landed on a given night and to pass word for 
a party of unusual strength to be ready to carry it inland, 
while providing at the same time that the Revenue 
officers should hear of it. A hint to them of the im- 
portance of the occasion, a muster on the Marsh of all 
the inflammable elements^ and the thing was done. He 
knew he could trust the determination and ferocity of 
the smugglers to ensure a desperate and a bloody battle. 

Sauvignac expressed his approbation and had many 
questions to put of time and place and other details. 
It was late before their talk ceased — that talk which poor 
Will North attributed to so different a subject. 


CHAPTER XV 


THE BETRAYED MESSENGER 

If the maid of the inn really relied on Will to recover 
her locket she must have been disappointed in him; for 
by the morning he was too much ashamed of his conduct 
to recur to the subject; and M. Sauvignac was left in 
undisputed possession of the trophy. That gentleman's 
cheerfulness was quite unclouded by what had passed. 
He joked Will about his good fortune with persistent 
humor, till at last perceiving that the topic was an un- 
welcome one he showed a disposition to return to the 
amatory histories of the previous day. But Will turned 
a deaf ear ; and presently Mr. Morgan took the hint, and 
recognizing that his companions' mood had altered, he 
changed the tune of his discourse. He certainly was a 
man of tact. The obnoxious subject was completely 
dropped, and not the slightest sign betrayed conscious- 
ness of his hearers' change of attitude. Friend showed 
his appreciation by joining in the conversation; and it 
was a very jovial, united trio who pulled up their horses 
for a noonday rest in Poleshanger wood on the brink of 
the old mill-pool. It was Will himself who provided 
the opportunity for his betrayal. “ How refreshing a 
plunge in that pond would be," he said, leaning over the 
mossy wall and throwing crumbling bits of mortar and 
moss into the still water that mirrored every bough and 
leaf of the trees above it. Sauvignac turned to wink 
and grimace delightedly at Friend. ‘‘ Why not, my 
157 


iS8 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

boy ? he replied. '' WeVe time enough. Til mind your 
things.” Sauvignac could scarce repress a guffaw, and 
abruptly stooped to unfasten his boots to hide it. Friend 
shot a warning scowl at him behind Will's back and con- 
tinued calmly. ‘‘You swim, Morgan? You'll have a 
dip with the young un?'' 

So the unconscious victim delivered his trust to his 
betrayer, and plunged into the water. It was easy for 
Friend to abstract the packet from his pouch unseen. 

After half-an-hour's halt they rode on. They passed 
Ashford in the afternoon; and Friend easily persuaded 
Will to accompany him to the village of Aldington, which 
he declared to be quite in the road to Folkestone. It was 
nearly six o'clock before they came in sight of the tower 
of Aldington church. Copperhurst, the farm whither 
Friend was bound, lay a little further to the east, a good 
mile from the main body of the village. It was a fine old 
place, built of venerable red brick, mellowed and lichened 
into beauty by centuries of weather, and flanked with 
fragments of ancient wall and buttress whose massive- 
ness showed very great antiquity. Two tall, slender 
chimney-stacks rose above the high-pitched roof. Friend 
led the way through the stackyard where a family of pigs 
was routing in the straw, to the back of the house, and 
rapped at the open door with his whip-handle. A girl 
came out of the kitchen. She had a complexion of new 
milk and roses, limpid blue eyes and stiff, crinkly hair 
like golden wires. Her serious face softened into a smile 
at the sight of Friend. A knot of fair-haired children 
peered through the currant-bushes of the garden at the 
visitors. 

“ Well, Dolly, my dear, how do you all at Copper- 
hurst?” cried Friend. “Fairly, I hope? How's your 
mother? Ask her if she can come and speak to me ; I've 
two friends here I want to beg her hospitality for.” 

The girl disappeared without a word. “ Ah, I like 


THE BETRAYED MESSENGER 159 

these quarters; you have good taste, my friend,’' mur- 
mured Sauvignac. Friend shot a glance at him. '' Mind, 
Morgan, no pranks here,” he said in a low voice. You 
are on your honor.” 

Sauvignac pulled a grimace. In a minute the farmer’s 
wife came bustling up, a pleasant-faced woman of forty. 

Ah, Mrs. Rayner, and how are you ? How’s all the 
family?” called out Friend in his great hearty voice. 

'‘La, Squire, and it’s you yourself! Well, the sight 
of you is good for sore eyes, as they say. Get ye down 
and come in; bring your friends in; don’t hang back; 
ye’re kindly welcome all of ye. Any friends of Squire 
Wood’s is welcome at Copperhurst.” 

“ Ah, a word to you. Will — a word, Morgan,” whis- 
pered Friend. “ Don’t forget my name here is Wood — 
Squire Harry Wood — my London name’s not known in 
these parts.” He winked at Will, who accepted the 
statement with some surprise. 

Mrs. Rayner led the way into a spacious kitchen with a 
high roof supported by huge oaken beams. An enormous 
hearth and great open chimney was on one side ; a long 
table stood on the other side of the door, where Dolly 
and a servant-girl were laying the cloth for supper. A 
tall, powerful young man in riding breeches and gaiters 
was lounging in front of the fire, slashing sulkily at his 
boots with his riding-whip, and following the movements 
of the farmer’s daughter with intent and moody eyes; 
while her steadily averted head and demure, conscious 
carriage showed at once her recognition of his gaze and 
her repudiation of it. 

“You know Mr. Jack Rangsley, Squire?” said Mrs. 
Rayner, introducing him. “ To be sure I do,” replied 
Friend, advancing with outstretched hand. “ Why, we’ve 
been partners these last three years, dame! I know 
Jack Rangsley? Who is there on all the Marsh who 
doesn’t ? ” 


i6o THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

The young man turned and grasped Friend’s hand. 

Glad to see you again, Wood,” he said, some echo of 
sullenness, clearly not due to the newcomers, still hang- 
ing round his manner. Friend made haste to present 
his companions. Here’s a friend of mine from Wales, 
dame — Mr. David Morgan, whom I’m anxious to bespeak 
your kindness for. He happens to be in a little difficulty ; 
in trouble, you know, from the Bow Street fellows — you 
understand — and has to keep quiet a bit ; so where could 
I bring him safer than here? I’m going to try to ship 
him out of the country presently, but I must look round 
a bit first and see that the coast is clear ; there’s such a 
deuced sight of the military about just now that 
we have to look about us at every step. Isn’t that so, 
Rangsley ? ” 

‘‘ By G — it is. Wood. Trade’s as good as ruined.” 
And this/’ indicating Will, is a young friend of 
mine who has come with us — for the good of his health,” 
he concluded with a knowing look. ‘‘ Can you take us in 
for a night or two, dame ? ” 

That I can, Squire, and glad to do it ; you know 
there’s always a welcome for you and any of your 
friends at Copperhurst. Now, Dolly, hurry, my lass; 
the gentlemen want their supper. Ah, here comes the 
master. Master, here’s Mr. Jack Rangsley; and Squire 
Wood’s just dropped in with two friends to spend a few 
days with us.” 

The farmer, a silent slow-moving countryman, with 
blonde complexion and stiff golden hair, shook hands 
with his guests, giving a sidelong jerk of his head and 
inaudible greeting to Rangelsy, and ,a powerful grip of 
the hand to Friend and his companions. Then the men 
sat down to supper, waited on by Dolly and the maid 
while Mrs. Rayner directed their services. 

It was evident that the beautiful Dolly had an admirer 
in the person of young Rangsley ; and evident also from 


THE BETRAYED MESSENGER i6i 


the gloom and sullenness of his manner that his suit was 
not prospering. Perhaps his dissatisfaction caused him 
to appear to less advantage than usual ; for certainly Will 
thought him as ignorant and sullen a boor as ever he had 
met, and quite unworthy of Friend’s cheerful and good- 
humored conversation. This opinion was shared by M. 
Sauvignac, whose quick eyes had taken in the situation 
at their first glance, and who vowed to himself that the 
girl deserved a better lover than that surly brute; and 
having said so, he would have been false to his own 
character if he had not also resolved to supply her with 
one in his own person. Friend’s caution went for little 
with him ; he was as incapable of understanding the idea 
of honor towards a woman as Friend himself was of 
the idea of patriotism. But the sore and jealous 
Rangsley did not fathom his intentions. It was to the 
handsome young stranger that his suspicions naturally 
turned; he looked at Will with a resentful and malignant 
eye, ready to misconstrue his every glance and gesture. 
Will did not comprehend the cause of his unfriendliness, 
but could not fail to be aware of it; and it did not tend 
to set him at his ease. Fie was already somewhat taken 
aback to find himself plunged into a community of 
smugglers ; for the talk was all of the running of goods, 
the profits of sales, and of collisions with and outwittings 
of the Revenue officers. He had, it is true, no very 
decided opinions on the subject, and would have been 
quite ready to enter into the enthusiasm of his companions 
had it not been for his errand; but he could not help 
feeling it a little inconsistent with his position as a 
Government messenger. He bore it for a while well 
enough. He told himself that the fact that he had been 
brought here by Friend proved that he need have no 
hypersensitive misgivings on the score of his loyalty; 
and assured himself he had no reason to identify himself 
with the Excise. To hear of its defeats gave him no 


1 62 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

pain; but diatribes against the Government made him 
uneasy. And Rangsley, with the infallible instinct for 
annoyance of a jealous man, divined his feeling, and 
launched out into most spiteful invectives against the 
rulers of the country from the King downward. Friend 
in growing anxiety tried to turn the conversation in vain. 
When it came to attacks on the King Will could endure 
no more. He rose to his feet. ‘‘ I would have you 
know, sir,'' he said, ‘‘ that I am a servant of the Gov- 
ernment and the bearer of an important despatch myself, 
and cannot sit here and " 

Rangsley interrupted him. ‘‘ Then you're a d — d 
spy! " he shouted, springing to his feet. Friend laid his 
hand on his arm. ‘‘No spy, no spy, Rangsley," he said. 
“ Sit down again ; I'll explain all to you after supper. 
The lad has no harm in him ; I know him to the bottom. 
I can make it all plain to you." And Mrs. Rayner 
hastened in with, “ Now, Mr. Rangsley, don't go for to 
make a disturbance at the table ; sure you know you can 
trust any friend of Squire Wood's." 

“ I'm no spy," cried Will indignantly. “ I have no 
interest in the undertakings of any gentleman here; you 
may all cheat the Revenue as much as you like for me; 
only I'll not sit here and hear my King abused." 

“ And quite right there, sir," said Farmer Rayner. 
“ Cheat I " exclaimed Rangsley. ‘‘ What d'ye mean by 
saying, ‘ cheat ' to me ? " 

“ Come, come. Will," expostulated Friend. 

In short, there was a pretty little quarrel, in the noise 
of which all joined more or less except Sauvignac. 
Friend tried to soothe Rangsley, and Farmer Rayner, 
Will ; while Dolly unfortunately brought matter to boil- 
ing-point again by putting in a word in Will's defense 
when she thought Friend too hard on him. This worked 
Rangsley up to frenzy. He accused Will of being a 
paid informer ; he banged his fist on the table with such 


THE BETRAYED MESSENGER 163 

violence as to upset a heavy gallon jug of beer which 
stood by him; and finally, both Friend and his host 
putting themselves between him and the object of his 
wrath, he kicked over his chair with force sufficient to 
break the oaken cross-bar that connected its legs, and 
rushed out into the open air. 

Ah, well, we can’t blame him ; we see how the matter 
stands,” said Friend with a look of intelligence. “ We 
shall have to intercede with Dolly to smile on him a bit, 
shan’t we, dame ? ” 

“ Indeed, Squire, I don’t wish to have anything to say 
to him,” said Dolly with her head up. 

'' Then I’m afraid there’ll be rough times for a good 
many people on the Marsh besides oursdves, my dear,” 
replied Friend. “ lie’s a good friend of mine, is young 
Rangsley; but a bear with a sore head is not an uglier 
customer than he is when he’s put out.” 

“ And that’s true enough. Squire,” said Mrs. Rayner ; 
'' and it’s wishful I am his temper was sweeter, or else 
that he’d look elsewhere for a wife than to any daughter 
of mine ; for Dolly she can’t abide his violent ways ; and 
the time we’ve had with him always hanging about the 
place — and him the last man we’d be wishful for to 
offend — I often say to my master here there’ll be 
bloodshed by the end of it. They’re a wild lot, they 
Rangsleys.” 

They are that, dame ; but as brave as bulldogs and 
as true as steel. Dolly might do worse for herself than 
take one of the genuine old Marsh breed.” But Dolly 
shook her head in silent determination. 

After supper Friend made Mrs. Rayner sit down for a 
chat while he enjoyed his pipe, inquiring after all her 
large family by name, and listening with genuine interest 
to her lengthy details as to how jack was doing at 
Lympne, and how Bill had been laid up for six weeks 
in the winter with a broken leg, and how Mrs. Coxeter, 


1 64 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

the parson’s lady at Smeeth, had offered to take Betsy 
into her service, and in short all the domestic events of 
the last twelve-month. The children came venturing 
into the room by twos and threes, and he had a word and 
a smile for each. Sauvignac meantime, much bored, 
had gone in search of the beautiful Dolly, and was dis- 
playing his utmost gallantry in helping her to clear the 
table, and showering his compliments upon her in his 
favorite strain of jocular flattery. She took it with un- 
moved composure. She did not understand his high- 
flown style; and by-and-by left him to put her little 
brothers and sisters to bed. 

Will had been so unfortunate as to fall in with the irate 
Rangsley, who was hanging about the house in hopes of 
a few last words with Dolly before he left. He was 
somewhat mollified by perceiving that Will was not seek- 
ing her company, and attached himself to him with a 
view partly of preventing him from changing his mind, 
and partly of investigating his real character. Will 
found himself put through a sort of clumsy examination 
as to his employment and errand; and, resentful as he 
was of his previous conduct, resolved to afford him no 
satisfaction, made short answers, and at last abruptly 
left him. No further consolation befell the luckless lover 
that night; Dolly never as much as showed herself at a 
window ; and the hour wearing late he had no resource 
but to take himself home. 

They kept early hours at Copperhurst; at nine o’clock 
the doors were shut and they had all gone to their rooms. 
Will bethought him of his trust. During the day he had 
satisfied himself by seeing that his wallet was safe: its 
stiff sides gave no indication of the loss of their contents ; 
but now he judged it safe to satisfy his eyes of their 
presence. He opened the pouch. It was empty. He 
gazed with incredulous eyes ; he looked wildly round the 
room to see if he had dropped the packet unconsciously; 


THE BETRAYED MESSENGER 165 

he turned again to the wallet. Its vacuity gave him no 
information. 

When he realized that the papers were gone indeed, he 
bounded to the door, rushed along the passage and hurled 
himself, without knocking, without warning, into Friend’s 
room. '' Mr. Friend! ” he gasped, I have been robbed 
— I am ruined ! ” 

‘'Robbed? Ruined? What dye mean, lad?” asked 
Friend, turning quickly. 

“ Look here ! ” gasped poor Will, thrusting the empty 
wallet into his hands. “ It is gone — gone ! The wallet 
is empty. I have lost Lord Nelson’s despatch! It must 
have been taken. I am robbed — robbed, I tell you ! ” 

“You have been robbed of Lord Nelson’s despatch? 
Is that what you say, lad ? This is a pretty to-do ! ” 

“It must have been stolen, Mr. Friend! I’ve looked 
at it every night, and felt the pouch every hour of the 
day — and this evening when I come to look, I find it 
empty! Oh, it is sheer ruin! Who is the scoundrel 
who has done it ? ” 

“ This is a strange job, Will,” said Friend slowly and 
gravely. “ Who can have done it ? ” 

“ Help me to find the thief, Mr. Friend. I must find 
him; I must get back my papers; my life depends upon 
it. Don’t you see? My future — my fortune — Susan — 
everything! Help me, Mr. Friend! If anyone in the 
world can, you’re the man.” 

“ That’s a good deal truer than you think, lad,” was 
Friend’s internal comment with keen enjoyment; but he 
said, gravely and thoughtfully as before : “ As you say, 
Will, the thing is to find the thief. When did it happen? 
Are you sure you had the packet last night ? ” 

“ Quite certain. It was only last night I was looking 
at the seals, and thinking how well and clearly they were 
impressed. And I felt the pouch constantly during the 
day.” 


1 66 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

And never took it off you until just now?’’ 

No — except in that wood where we had our swim, 
when you watched it for me.” 

‘‘ Yes, I had it in my hand the whole while. It must 
have been taken from the pouch while on you. Will. It’s 
the only possibility.” 

'' But who could have done it? We’ve met no one.” 

We stopped at three inns; the one at Tonbridge, the 
Red Lion at Tildesden, and that one at Woodchurch; 
but no one there would know your errand. It must have 
been some one who knew and who had an interest in 
taking them, either to spite the Government, or to do 
you an ill turn.” 

‘‘ Rangsley ! ” cried Will, struck with sudden certainty. 

Nonsense, Will ; impossible ! I know young Rangsley 
well — have known him for years. The thing’s impossi- 
ble! The fellow may have a grudge against the Gov- 
ernment on the score of the Excise, and I know he’s 
rather bitter just now on account of all the soldiers in 
the Marsh, who interfere with trade; but theft he’s 
incapable of. I’ll answer for him with my life. Will.” 

‘‘But, Mr. Friend, consider! He knew. I let out — 
stupidly enough like a fool as I am — that I carried des- 
patches. Who else was there who knew? And you 
say he has a grudge against Government, and he seems 
to have taken one against me, goodness only knows why. 
Who else could it possibly have been? It isn’t possible 
any one else in this house — Farmer Rayner or his 
wife ” 

“ Oh, no, no, impossible. More simple, honest souls 
never breathed. I don’t know what to think, lad. It’s 
impossible Rangsley should have played such a trick; 
and yet ” 

“ But who else is there who could possibly have done 
it?” 

“ Let us sleep upon it, lad. It needs a cool head. I 


THE BETRAYED MESSENGER 167 

can’t believe it of Rangsley; and yet It looks a 

deuced cold-blooded trick. No; I can’t believe it of 
Rangsley. Go back to bed and sleep upon it, Will; 
we’ll talk of it in the morning. It needs wary walking; 
for I warn you, Rangsley’s an ugly customer to quarrel 
with.” 

‘‘ The uglier the better ; I’m not afraid of him. I can’t 
sleep, Mr. Friend, till I’m on the track of my papers. 
My honor is at stake. I’ll ride after him ” 

“Nonsense, Will; go back to bed. Your horse is 
tired; we’ve come a good thirty miles today; and you’ll 
want him tomorrow. It’ll be time enough to tackle 
Rangsley in the morning, if no other light turns up. I 
can’t believe it of him. If he it was, it was only a joke, 
a trick to plague you. You’ll get the papers back right 
enough. I’ll be bound. Now go to bed, young un; I 
want to get to mine ; I’m dead sleepy.” 

Partially satisfied. Will withdrew. He was inclined to 
think Friend took the matter a little too cooly ; but that, 
after all, was natural if the affair were only an ill- 
natured trick. He had not a doubt left concerning 
Rangsley’s guilt. Appearances were too strong against 
him. 


CHAPTER XVI 


FISTICUFFS 

Will was wild to ride in pursuit of Rangsley with the 
first morning light, and reclaim his packet either by 
persuasion or force; but Friend put him off on various 
pretexts hour by hour, bidding him first wait for break- 
fast and then for other reasons, till he saw he could 
restrain him no longer without exciting remark. In fact, 
he was not at all anxious that Will should confront 
Rangsley on this errand, anticipating that mischief either 
to North or to himself would be the certain issue. But 
the false scent had certainly been of service to him so 
far, and he thought it safest on the whole to let him take 
his own way. 

Will once off the scene, he carried Sauvignac up to 
Aldington Knoll, a little rocky eminence lying just across 
the road in front of the house. But though from their 
situation the ascent was only slight, on the further side 
the ground fell away several hundred feet right down 
to the level of the plain; and the Knoll jutting forward 
from the long range of hill that marks the ancient coast- 
line, commands a wide view of Romney Marsh, from the 
hill crowned by the ancient castle of Lympne to distant 
Fairlight Cliff by Hastings. No better spot could be 
found for a study of the coast threatened by Napoleon ; 
and his two agents spent an engrossing hour discussing 
the land and its defenses, Friend explaining the positions 
of the different townlets, Dymchurch, Romney, Lydd, 

168 


FISTICUFFS 


169 

and even the far-off Rye and Winchelsea on their low 
spurs of hill. He pointed out the dangers of the promon- 
tory of Dungeness with its treacherous currents, and 
fixed the spot, a mile west of Dymchurch, where the 
landing might best be effected on the flat sandy shore, 
the defenses of the district being drawn off as arranged 
to the smuggling fight. 

We must have a signal from here,” he said, “ to 
guide our friends. There’s no spot like this in all the 
country. There’s a fellow I know on the other side, a 
smuggler from Biville, who has often been across on 
our errands, and who knows this coast as well as his own, 
who can bring in the fleet with the help of a beacon on 
the Knoll, however dark the night is.” 

And we shall want a guide to lead the troops over 
the Marsh. That will be your task, mon ami, heinf^* 

'' Oh, no ; I must be at Hythe with my fellows to share 
the fun there. It’ll be expected of me. I’ve a large 
interest in the cargo, you see; and the boys will want 
some one to lead them. There’ll be the Rangsleys, of 
course, and Jack Carter from Romney; but I must be 
there to supply brains to the party.” 

They will need no brains better than their own ; and 
what matters it what they think? We must have a good 
guide; and whom have we who knows the Marsh like 
you? ” 

Any Marsh man can guide the troops. I must be 
with my smuggling boys. I have got the poor fellows 
into this scrape, and I must be with them to see it 
through.” 

‘'But what matters it what happens to them? You 
must not think of them, my friend; you must think of 
our Cause. And suppose you are knocked on the head 
in the scuffle, or worse, are taken prisoner? It would 
be a pretty position for you, Dubois.” 

I can take care of myself,” said Friend. “ Look 


170 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

here, Sauvignac ; to leave my boys in the lurch — how can 
I do it? This is no affair of theirs; they are bought and 
sold, poor fellows; sold long ago, when I first took 
shares in the All's Well; I can’t throw them over now.” 

'' But your smugglers do not matter at all ; it is the 
Emperor’s work that counts; the Emperor to whom you 
are pledged. You are not your own master now, 
Dubois.” 

I am not going to leave my friends in this pickle, 
whatever the Emperor wants,” said Friend decidedly. 

I’ve got them into the scrape, and I’ll see it out with 
them whatever happens. That’s fixed; and you can tell 
his Majesty so. As for you, you won’t be on the scene, 
I suppose. You’re not wanted here; I can arrange the 
beacon quite well without you; and there’s nothing else 
left that needs your help. All we want now is to know 
the date.” 

‘‘ Oh, I shall return. I shall bring word of the date,” 
said Sauvignac. ‘‘ Say I stay here two or three more 
days, and then return in one week more. I should guess 
it will be in two or three weeks’ time. No longer than 
that^ mon ami^ and then our friends here will find them- 
selves subjects of a new sovereign. Your proud and 
treacherous country will be at the feet of our Emperor ! 
What glory for us! You and I may be proud of our 
work, my friend.” 

But this outburst of satisfaction raised no response in 
Friend’s mind; on the contrary, it woke an uncomfort- 
able sensation as they left the Knoll and strolled back 
to the house. He was not wont to reflect on his aims; 
he had chosen his path many years ago, and had pursued 
it without scruple or hesitation ; but now the question 
forced itself on him, whether he really wished to see 
Napoleon master of England? He felt the idea dis- 
agreeable, he knew not why. He stood to gain im- 
mensely by the success of the invasion; if on the other 


FISTICUFFS 


171 

hand it failed, his ruin was imminent; and yet he found 
himself on the point of wishing that it should fail. He 
pulled himself up angrily. What’s the good of think- 
ing? IVe chosen my part,” he said to himself. ‘‘I’m 
for action; thought was always poison to me. Thank 
goodness there’s plenty to be done, and plenty hanging 
on the issue. No petty aims for me; when I play, I 
throw for high stakes.” With an impatient shrug of 
the shoulders he returned to the consideration of the 
present situation. Sauvignac was again in pursuit of 
Dolly. He went in search of Mrs. Rayner, and managed 
to say a word apart to her. “ Keep Dolly as much out 
of Mr. Morgan’s way as you can, dame. He’s a married 
man; and he’s not to be trusted where a pretty girl’s 
in the case.” 

But Mrs. Rayner’s simple precautions had little chance 
when pitted against a man of M. Sauvignac’s address. 
His gallantry, however, was quite thrown away upon 
Dolly Rayner. She did not understand him; he pitched 
him note too high for her comprehension ; and by-and-by 
he perceived it and was piqued. Friend’s watchfulness, 
too, was an incentive ; he became aware of a tacit guard 
on his actions, and instantly resolved to outwit his 
vigilance. His pursuit, at first the merest idleness, now 
became serious. Flis vanity was touched; he was re- 
solved to teach the ignorant proud girl his quality; he 
was not to be foiled by mere insensibility. He changed 
his tactics. He dropped his jokes and his rhodomontade ; 
he became respectful, assiduous, earnest. He drew her 
out and made her talk, and listened with reverential 
observance; he spoke of himself and his hopes and long- 
ings^ the emptiness of his life, and his need of love. 
Dolly referred to his marriage; and then he claimed her 
pity; he told her it had been the misfortune of his life. 
He threw a shade of sadness into his manner; and 
touched and sympathizing, Dolly began to listen to him. 


172 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

It was an amusing experiment to him ^^to make love 
sadly, like an Englishman, as he phrased it; and he 
did it deplorably well. Friend noticed Dolly's growing 
interest, and began to get exceedingly uneasy. 

^The comedy proceeded with interruptions of violent 
disturbance from Will, who returned having failed to find 
Rangsley at home, and who filled the whole neighbor- 
hood with his rage and despair. He thought his friends 
strangely composed over his misfortune. Friend, it was 
true, gave him sympathy enough, but made no helpful 
suggestions, nor showed the resourcefulness which all 
who knew him instinctively looked for from him; Mr. 
Morgan openly grinned and made sport of him; and 
Mrs. Rayner, though most kindly concerned and inter- 
jecting as many ‘‘ Dear, dears ! " and “ Who'd ha' thought 
it?" and ‘‘Well, now, if that isn't a pity," as he tried 
to draw, obviously betrayed that the whole matter was 
not as important to her as the welfare of the last litter 
of pigs. He raved and stormed; he turned the house 
upside down and inside out in a hopeless search for his 
papers ; he went off again to look for Rangsley, inquiring 
out all his customary haunts, and tried his utmost to 
induce his companion to join him; but Friend responded 
with much regret that his business forbade him for 
the present to give any assistance. Mr. Morgan's safety 
must be his first consideration ; and he had heard at last 
of a vessel to which he could be safely entrusted. So 
with the greatest relief he took his troublesome charge 
to Hythe and shipped him off, vowing to himself he 
would never suffer him to revisit Copperhurst till Dolly 
should be safely married. 

Will was hanging about the house in a fret and fume 
during his absence, having again failed to find his 
quarry^ when fate kindly sent the man he wanted straight 
into his arms. Rangsley, driven by his restless desire 
to see Dolly, rode up to Copperhurst towards five in the 


FISTICUFFS 


173 

afternoon, and dismounting, found himself face to face 
with Will. 

''You are just the man I wanted,'’ exclaimed he; "I 
have been looking for you everywhere, Mr. Rangsley." 

" Them that looks for me has only to do it on the open 
and they'll find me sure enough," said Rangsley defiantly, 
for Will's manner conveyed a threat. " It’s not my 
custom to shirk them that wants me. And what do you 
want with me, young fellow ? " 

" I think you know well enough, Mr. Rangsley. I 
want a certain packet of papers I missed from my person 
the evening I had the pleasure of making your acquaint- 
ance." 

"You want a packet of papers? G — d d — n your 
impudence, sir, what has that got to do with me? You 
haven't the coolness to suppose I took 'em ? " He 
garnished his speech with more oaths and sulphureous 
expressions than the customs of our day permit the 
historian to repeat. 

"No, sir; I know very well you did," replied Will. 
" Come, Mr. Rangsley, if you did it for a jest, hand the 
packet back and I will say no more about it. It's a 
serious business, sir — a Government matter; no affair 
for fooling. Give me back the papers; or, I warn you, 
mischief will come of it." 

" I tell you I know nothing of your confounded 
papers ! " cried Rangsley with a volley of startling oaths. 
" D'ye take me for a liar ? D'ye want to fight ? " Dolly's 
face appeared peeping from behind a curtain at an 
upper window; the sight revived his jealousy in force. 
He began stripping off his coat. " Come on, then ! 
I'm your man ! I'll give you the best drubbing you ever 
had in your life, you miserable white-lievered Govern- 
ment spy ! " 

" You'd better take care, Mr. Rangsley, or you'll get 
more than you bargain for; I'm no novice with the 


174 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

mauleys/^ said Will. ‘‘ But come ; I don’t want a row. 
I want my papers; hand them over to me in Heaven’s 
name; or, I warn you, you’ll repent it.” 

Rangsley’s only answer was a sudden blow ; Will 

dodged it barely in time. ‘‘ Well, if you will have it ” 

he cried, struggling to pull off his coat^ Rangsley danc- 
ing after him with his fists up. Don’t think I’m afraid 
of you — let me only get my coat off — come into the stack- 
yard, you’ll fall easy there on the straw.” 

‘‘ I’ll pound you ; I’ll smash your bones for you ! 
Aha, afraid, are you — want to fall soft on the straw?” 
jeered Rangsley, acutely conscious of Dolly’s presence, 
though as soon as she perceived that Rangsley saw her 
she had disappeared. “ You shall make the acquaintance 
of the feel of these stones before many minutes have 
passed^ I can promise you, my fine city spy ! ” But at 
length Will had freed himself from his coat, and lost no 
time in silencing his adversary with a lightning-swift 
blow full in the mouth, which Rangsley had not the skill 
to avoid. Filled with scorn by Will’s peaceable de- 
meanor, he was astonished to find himself confronted 
with a foe fully versed in the science of the noble art, 
which he himself, confiding in his uncommon muscular 
power, had always scorned; but of courage at least he 
had no lack. The windows were filled with faces; Mrs. 
Rayner with uplifted hands and eyes was at the kitchen 
window, the servant-girl was in the doorway, and the 
children’s heads craned eagerly out above ; the conscious- 
ness of Dolly hiding behind the curtain fired Rangsley 
to madness. But his courage and fury could only prompt 
him to a wild and savage attack, easily foiled by Will’s 
superior knowledge. It was a simple matter to him, 
comparatively cool as he was, to avoid Rangsley’s rushes 
and parry his blows ; he had only to wait till his ad- 
versary had exhausted himself and his victory was 
certain. But Rangsley’s impatience did not even allow 


FISTICUFFS 


175 


him to wear himself out; blind with rage, he offered 
an easy mark to Will, who let out a swift and powerful 
blow, and down went Rangsley on the stones he had 
vowed to introduce to his enemy. He was up again in 
a second; again and again he rushed at Will, each time 
blinder, madder than before; again and again he went 
down like a shot rabbit before Will’s long arm. Muddy, 
bruised, his nose and mouth streaming with blood, he 
presented a sorry spectacle. But no whit was he 
daunted; till Will, pitying his unavailing courage, and 
seeing that he would never give in of his own accord, 
let out with all his force, and he dropped for the last 
time senseless on the ground. A cheer went up from 
the spectators. Will, unbruised and almost untouched, 
picked up his coal and put it on. Then he stooped over 
the prostrate Rangsley. He gave no sign of life. 

Here, Jim!’' cried Will to one of the farm lads who 
was sitting astride the wall and throwing up his cap 
with shouts ; fetch a pail of water for Mr. Rangsley.” 
Mrs. Rayner hurried out with a basin and dashed water 
over his head. In a few minutes he began to revive; 
his eyelids quivered and he uttered a deep groan. Will 
blew on his face and flicked him with a wet handkerchief, 
while Mrs. Rayner wiped off the blood and rubbed his 
hands. Presently he opened his eyes, looked round him 
wildly^ and with an effort, closing his lips tightly, sat up. 

‘'How, are you better, Rangsley?” said Will. “By 
Gad, man, I was almost afraid I’d done for you. I 
should have been sorry if I’d split your skull.” 

Rangsley, looking very white and sick, said nothing, 
but cast his eyes up at the window where Dolly had been 
seen. She was not in sight. He shook his head be- 
tween humiliation and nausea, using all his strength to 
repress another groan. Then, repulsing Will’s attempt 
to help him, he scrambled to his feet. “ Come, man, 
shake hands; there’s no ill-will left, I hope?” said Will. 


176 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

But Rangsley made no reply. Muttering a curse, he 
turned away and shambled uncertainly to the horse- 
block where he had left his nag tied to the ring in the 
wall. Will followed him anxiously, uncertain if he were 
capable of mounting. But he would have no help. 
Blindly and shaking like a drunken man, he untied the 
knot, and after one or two unsuccessful efforts hoisted 
himself into the saddle. Then he turned to Will and 
cursed him with great force and feeling, and rode out 
of the yard. 

Dear heart alive, there’ll be sore times now for 
somebody!” sighed Mrs. Rayner. Young Mr. Rangs- 
ley, he’s not one to forgive a beating like this. But are 
ye not hurt. Master North? He’s a powerful fighter, is 
Jack Rangsley; and to see you let him down as easy as 
if he was a blind puppy 1 La, but you’re a master with 
your fists, sir; I wouldn’t ha’ believed there was living 
man who could ha’ done it ! ” 

I’ve had some experience with my fists, dame ; worse 
luck for me,” said Will. But what’s to do now? I’m 
no nearer getting my papers. Ass and blockhead that I 
am^ why didn’t I think to search his pockets ? ” 

But the opportunity was gone ; and Will had to decide 
on a fresh plan of action, and moreover unassisted, for 
Friend was spending the night at Hythe. He could 
think of no satisfactory plan, however, and resolved to 
await his return. In the meantime the fight filled every 
one’s minds and mouths. By G — d now, but I like a 
chap as can keep his head with his fists,” said the farmer, 
his tongue unloosed for once by excitement. There’s 
nothing like an Englishman for that, is there, sir? Now 
among the Mounseers, who we’re looking to see over 
here, so they say, one o’ these fine days, if two fellows 
have a bit of difference, they’ll out with their knives, 
so they tell me, and stick each other as I would a pig.” 

‘'Ay, poor creatures; they haven’t the strength to 


FISTICUFFS 


177 


stand up to each other like you and Mr. Jack Rangsley, 
sir/’ said Mrs. Rayner. “ Why, Fve heard tell they 
feed on frogs and snails and such-like vermin; it stands 
to reason they’ve not the strength to hit each other like 
men on such a diet.” 

'' And they talk of invading us,” said the farmer with 
fine scorn. ‘‘Pass us the ale-jug, wife. Ah! Good 
English beef and beer forever. We aren’t afraid of old 
Boney and his Mounseers while we make brawn like this. 
Here’s what’ll keep our shores safe.” And he took a 
deep draught of his own home-brewed. 

But with the morning, Friend’s return being still un- 
certain, Will could endure no longer to remain inactive. 
Left to himself it seemed to him there was nothing for 
it but to get Rangsley arrested and examined by a 
magistrate. His behavior hardly warranted the sup- 
position that the theft was a mere joke or malicious 
trick. And even if it had been, now that milder meas- 
ures had failed Will saw no resource but to invoke the 
help of the law. So, his resolution being taken, he rode 
off to the nearest magistrate and applied for a warrant 
for Rangsley’s arrest. To his surprise he found it a 
more difficult matter than he had supposed. The magis- 
trate showed an unaccountable reluctance to act; pooh- 
poohed the affair, vowed it was all a joke and a mistake, 
declined again and again to grant the warrant, and 
when Will insisted, exhausted his ingenuity in finding 
excuses. Will was obliged to talk big about Govern- 
ment and the Prime Minister and the First Lord of the 
Admiralty and the Foreign Secretary, showing a closer 
acquaintance with these eminent personages than he 
could in strict truth claim; and he could perceive he 
produced the desired effect. The magistrate was plainly 
terrified; and at last in a hasty nervous way made out 
and handed to him the warrant. “ Here it is, young 
man/’ he said. “ Here it is since you will have it ; but 


[178 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

remember, I wash my hands of it. I’ll have nothing 
to do with the affair; I’ve warned you of the conse- 
quences; don’t blame me if evil befalls. I wash my 
hands of the whole affair.” 

You’ll let me have a couple of men to effect the 
arrest, I suppose?” said Will. 

Oh, I suppose you can take a couple of constables ; 
but it’s your own doing, your own doing entirely. Don’t 
say I didn’t warn you. I wish to have nothing to do 
with it.” 

Will did not care whether the magistrate had much 
or little to do with it as long as he got his warrant and 
his men ; and rode off, followed by the two constables, 
feeling blither than he had since the discovery of his 
loss. But the day was wearing on. It was already past 
noon before he obtained his interview with the repre- 
sentative of the law, who after a night of conviviality 
was somewhat late in rising; then the constables had to 
be found and fetched; and when they started at last 
they had a long ride before them, for Rangsley House, 
the home, half farm^ half manor-house, of the redoubted 
smuggling clan was eighteen miles from the Hythe 
magistrate. 

They arrived, however, without mishap. They were 
admitted by a blowsy virago of twenty-five or so, a 
daughter of the house, whose active and martial bearing 
went far to justify the tales Will had been hearing from 
his companions on the way of the masculine feats of her 
and her sister. The Rangsley women were as bold and 
determined smugglers as any of the men of their race; 
they used to go in person with their male companions 
to meet and land their contraband goods, sitting astride 
of their horses like men, said Rumor, with pistols stuck 
in their belts. '' Ay, and use ’em too sometimes, the 
vixens ! ” said the constable. But unsuspicious of their 
errand, the heroine admitted Will and his companions, 


FISTICUFFS 


179 


telling them they would find her brother in the parlor. 

Rangsley, his head tied up in a cloth, was stretched on 
a hard black horsehair sofa, a table with a bottle of 
brandy and a tumbler on it beside him. He sat up sud- 
denly as Will entered. 

Come, Mr. Rangsely, I am sorry to disturb your 
repose, and sorry too for my unpleasant errand,’’ said 
Will, “ but we’ve not yet finished our little affair, you 
and 1. I’m bound to cause you more trouble unless 
you’ll end the matter in a sensible way without further 
fuss. Will you hand over to me that packet of Govern- 
ment despatches you took from my pouch the other 
night?” 

“ D — n you and your despatches ! ” exclaimed 
Rangsley. 

Swear as much as you like, but I’m going to have 
them ; and if you don’t hand them over peaceably I’ll 
carry you before a magistrate who’ll force you to give 
them up.” 

“You’ll carry me before a magistrate?” cried Rangs- 
ley, too much astonished even to swear. 

“ I will. I’ve got the warrant in my pocket, and there 
are two constables outside the door. Now, will you 
give them up peaceably, or will you come quietly, or 
must we take you ? ” 

A volley of execrations was the only reply. Will 
opened the door and called the constables. Rangsley 
rushed at them, shouting for help. By a rare chance 
he and his sister were alone in the house, so the con- 
stables’ task should have been a light one. But even 
enfeebled as he was with his late overthrow, Rangsley 
was no easy conquest; and whilst they struggled, his 
sister rushed in and threw herself with the utmost spirit 
into the fray, hitting out with the vigor of a man, and 
clinging and clawing in a manner still more embarrassing 
to her opponents. “ D — n the jade, choke her off, can’t 


i8o THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

you — she’s throttling me,” gasped the constable whom 
she had selected for her attentions. The other came to 
his assistance, but only by using very ungallant force 
could he release his comrade. Will had by this time 
fastened Rangsley’s arms. Bring him away, lads ; 
never mind the young woman,” he said. “ WeVe got 
him; that’s the main thing; let’s be off at once.” 

We must silence that screeching bitch, though, or we 
shall have trouble; she’ll bring the whole gang on us,” 
remonstrated the constable. “ Knock her over the head. 
Bill.” 

‘‘ Shame, man ; would you hit a woman ? ” cried Will. 
‘‘ Let her go, and let’s be off.” 

‘‘ Stuff a handkerchief into her mouth then and tie her 
up. We shall be in a pretty pickle if we don’t. But 
Will, revolting from the idea of violence to a female and 
eager to be off, would not stay; he and one of the 
constables dragged Rangsley to the door and with con- 
siderable difficulty got him upon a horse; while the re- 
maining man took what measures his caution prompted 
for silencing the yelling Miss Rangsley. 

Once on horseback and in motion the captive struggled 
no longer, but abandoned himself to his fate in passive 
sullenness. Will put the horses to a trot; and in a few 
moments their companion came galloping after. '' We’d 
better put our best foot forward^ sir,” he said; I’ve 
gagged that vixen but, the men’ll be in soon and set her 
free; and then we shall have the whole gang after us as 
sure as eggs is eggs. We must get him into safety 
before dark, or our lives won’t be worth a rotten rope. 
I wish to Heaven we were well out of this business.” 
Will thought the counsel good, though he could not 
believe the danger to be so great or so imminent as the 
constables seemed to think ; and the party pushed on at 
a brisk pace. 


CHAPTER XVII 

THE smugglers' REVENGE 

Will was taking his prisoner to Ashford, the nearest 
place where he could be bestowed in safety ; but the sun 
had already set, the light was failing, and it was evident 
that night would be upon them before they reached the 
shelter of the streets. The constables often looked back 
over their shoulders, and hearkened anxiously for the 
sounds of pursuit. They were still a couple of miles 
from the town when the unmistakable noise of horses' 
hoofs at a gallop reached their ears. 

'‘They're after us; all's up, sir! We're dead men," 
exclaimed one. 

"Nonsense, man; don’t be chicken-hearted!" cried 
Will angrily. "First, we're not taken yet; and how do 
you know those fellows are after us? And even if they 
are, we are three; we can give a good account of our- 
selves, I hope." 

" Why, there'll be a score of 'em, sir. Let's leave 
the prisoner and ride for our lives. We may reach 
Ashford if we push for it." 

" Not without the prisoner," said Will, snatching at 
the bridle-rein of Rangsley's horse and urging him to a 
faster pace. Rangsley uttered an ugly laugh. 

" I tell you, sir, our lives are at stake," repeated the 
constable. "You don't know this Old Bourne gang 
that the Rangsleys lead. They're the most desperate 
characters on the Marsh. Let go that horse if you 
value your life, sir, and ride! " 

i8x 


1 82 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Ride yourself if you’re afraid,” said Will shortly. 
‘‘ IVe got my man and I stick to him ; and they can kill 
me if they choose before I give him up.” 

Well, if that’s your last word, sir, we must stay and 
take our chance ; but our blood’ll be on your head, that’s 
all.” 

The noise of hoofs was rapidly gaining on them. 
Their tired horses could make no speed, and presently 
a great shout announced that their pursuers had caught 
sight of them. Will turned in his saddle and glanced 
back. In the gathering dusk the road looked full of 
men; a shouting mob with waving arms and galloping 
horses was bearing down on them. Resistance was 
plainly useless ; but so was flight. With a sudden im- 
pulse Will wheeled round his horse and faced the enemy. 
The constables behind him did the same, drawing close 
to the prisoner. 

‘"Ahoy!” shouted one of the attackers, seeing the 
change of front. Is that Jack Rangsley you’ve got 
there? ” 

‘‘ It is. I’ve a warrant for his arrest. I warn you 
it’s at your peril you attempt to rescue him.” 

A great laugh was the only answer to his threat. A 
voice shouted Come on, boys ! ” and the whole mass 
of men bore down on the little party. In an instant 
Will was conscious of nothing but the deafening ex- 
plosion and thick smoke of firearms, the jostling and hard 
breathing of horses in his ears, and the hail of heavy 
blows. He hit out as well as he could, and was aware 
that one of the constables had fallen from his horse and 
that the other had made off and was in rapid flight. 
His prisoner was already in the hands of the rescuers. 
Then with a groan his horse fell under him. He leapt 
free of it, and quick as light threw himself in front of 
Rangsley on his saddle, fired his pistol into some one’s 
face, and dug his spurs deep into the horse to make 


THE SMUGGLERS’ REVENGE 183 

him rear and shake off the men who dung to saddle 
and bridle, hoping by one desperate effort to dear him- 
self from the throng and gallop off with his prisoner. 
But too many strong were the hands that dragged him 
down; with a violent struggle he came heavily to the 
ground. A dozen hands were at work to bind him 
before he could move to recover himself. He fought, 
but quite in vain ; and in ten minutes, bound, gaged, and 
helpless, he was placed again in the saddle with his feet 
tied together under the horse’s belly. 

Half stunned with the shock and the rough handling 
he had received, he lent but scant attention to the babel 
of voices, laughter, and oaths around him. The party, 
with Rangsley in triumph in their midst, turned back- 
wards along the road they had come. Will wondered 
stupidly what his fate was to be, and what had become 
of the two constables. Presently some one close to his 
side accosted him. He recognized ’Rangsley’s voice, 
jeering at him, triumphing over his ill-success, and 
threatening him with a rich revenge for the insults he 
had heaped upon him, and his treacherous designs of 
betrayal. But Will could barely understand him. His 
head was aching as if about to split from the blows he 
had received ; his bonds cut his wrists and ankles ; fatigue 
and the pain of his bruises stupefied his senses and made 
Rangsley’s taunts a wearisome and well-nigh unendur- 
able but meaningless sound. At last they reached the 
manor-house. There was a great dismounting ; a tramp- 
ling of horses and a confusion of voices, shouting and 
laughter. The girth that bound Will’s feet was cut; 
he was roughly pulled from his seat, and fell rather 
than climbed from his horse. A crowd of rough voices 
and rougher arms pushed and dragged him into the 
house; there were women present, and he recognized 
one as the sister of Rangsley he had already met. Then 
a door oponed before him ; he was pushed violently down 


1 84 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

a passage and into a dark cellar, fell over a step which 
descended into it; and too sore and weary to rise, lay 
motionless on the floor, and immediately fell into a deep 
sleep of exhaustion. 

Meanwhile the Rangsley family and the band of 
smugglers they headed were holding high revel to cele- 
brate their triumph. A keg of Cognac was rolled in 
from its hiding-place and broached, enormous joints of 
beef, both roast and boiled, and huge wedges of cheese 
were placed on the board, and a feast of Gargantuan 
plenty was begun, whose most attractive ingredient was 
the prospect of torturing a defeated enemy. Rangsley 
had no doubt at all that Will was a spy of the Excise 
sent to discover the habits and haunts of the smugglers 
and to break up the gang by effecting his arrest. Abso- 
lutely ignorant on the subject of the Government des- 
patches, he supposed Will’s persistency on the point a 
mere veil for his real purpose. He had no fear of the 
local authorities at Hythe, Woodchurch, and Appledore; 
they were well known to be interested themselves in the 
illegal traffic, and would afford him every protection 
in their power; but at Ashford, a town of some im- 
portance, the justices would not dare to screen so noted 
a law-breaker. He had felt himself therefore in some 
real danger; and as his jealousy of Will on Dolly 
Rayner’s account, and his beating at his hands under 
her very eyes had provoked a lively personal hatred, he 
was ready for a really stirring and satisfactory revenge. 
Of course, his brothers and sisters and the other members 
of the gang shared his view; every one who was not a 
friend was to them necessarily a Government spy or an 
enemy. 

Opinion during the feast was only divided as to what 
fate should be allotted him. '' Let’s hang him,” said one. 

Drown him in a tub of Cognac,” suggested another. 

No, don’t spoil good liquor by wasting it on a scoundrel 


THE SMUGGLERS’ REVENGE 185 

like that. Hang him up by the thumbs from the top 
attic window, and wait till he drops on the stones.’’ 

Let’s have him in and see how he takes it,” said one 
of the women. The idea was welcomed; and Will, 
roughly aroused from sleep, was brought into the large 
stone-paved hall, lit by flaring torches and many a tallow- 
candle, where seventeen or eighteen men and three or 
four women were seated at a long table. Will, his arms 
still tied behind him, was set at the foot. 

“ Now, Mr. Spy,” said the elder of the Rangsley 
brothers, known all over the Marsh as the Squire,” 
“ we’re going to give you a lesson not to come into these 
parts on your sneaking errands again.” 

“ Ay, we’ll teach him a lesson that Gover’ment in 
London’ll hear of, and think twice before they meddles 
with us again.” 

'' What shall it be, young lickspittle ? Will ’ee hang, 
or shoot, or drown?” 

“Do you intend to kill me?” asked Will. He could 
not credit it. His head was still confused from his deep 
sleep; but he saw danger in the hard faces that sur- 
rounded him. Rangsley laughed aloud in answer. “ Oh 
no, pretty dear ! ” scoffed his sister. “ Such a mother’s 
pet as this can’t be touched, can he now ? He’s to come 
spying at his pleasure, and send men to the gallows just 
as he likes, and not a finger’s to be laid on him, because 
he’s such a pretty fellow, just down from London with 
such nice clothes and such pretty manners ! ” — “ See him 
change color ! ” cried the other sister triumphantly. 

“ You are wrong in calling me a spy,” said Will. “ I 
am no spy.” 

“No spy ! And he came with a warrant in his pocket ! 
Ah, the lying villain!” cried Jenny. She drew out a 
pistol, and leveled it at his head. Will winced in spite 
of himself. “See him duck!” she cried in delight. 
“ See him!' Shall I? Shall I let him have it?” 


1 86 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Will drew himself together. If his last hour had 
come he would at least meet it with courage; but his 
brain refused to credit it. “ It is monstrous ! It is in- 
credible ! ’’ his mind repeated. But the murderous mouth 
of the pistol confronted him unsparingly, and the fero- 
cious triumph of the young woman’s face gave no token 
of relenting. Suddenly a flash dazzled his eyes and some- 
thing whistled, stinging and burning, past his head. She 
had intentionally missed him, just grazing the tip of his 
ear. ''Well shot, Jenny!'’ cried the men, jeering. 
"Try again, lass!" 

" Pass me your powder-horn, Joe," she said, and coolly 
reloaded. The thoug’ht of Susan rushed upon Will’s 
mind with an agony of revolt; he would not, he could 
not die and lose her. The pistol was pointing at him 
again ; involuntarily he closed his eyes. '* Look ! He’s 
at his prayers!" cried Jenny with a shriek of insulting 
laughter. " Ay, he’ll have need to pray before we’ve 
done with him," said the elder Rangsley grimly. 

She fired again ; Will with a great effort kept his face 
steady and did not move. " Well, since he likes it, let’s 
give him some more," said with a horse laugh an 
elderly man with a hard, brutal face all inflamed with 
debauchery. With a tipsy hand he drew out a pistol 
and leveled it at Will. Others did the like; one shot 
after another rang out till the room was full of smoke; 
the bullets whistled round his head. They did not in- 
tend to kill him; they were merely playing with him 
before they came to business; but it was a marvel he 
was not hit. He did not blench ; he set his teeth and 
drew in his breath, his heart hardened to a stone with 
suppressed rebellion and rage. 

" Come, lads, that’s enough," said Rangsley impa- 
tiently. " Let’s get on to the real sport ; you’ve wasted 
enough powder and shot over that fool’s play. Where’s 
a rope ? Let’s string him up and ha’ done with it." 


THE SMUGGLERS’ REVENGE 187 

‘^Yes, outside the top window, by his thumbs/’ 

“Nay, the house is not high enough; he’d no more 
than break a few bones. We’ll string him up in the 
doorway, and watch him dancing on air as we drink.” 

One of the men produced a strong cord; Rangsley 
knotted it into a running noose. “ Will the hook above 
the door hold? ” asked some one. Two or three hastened 
to push a table below the doorway, standing on which 
they tested the hook by grasping it and then swinging 
on it with their whole weight. It stood perfectly firm. 
“ Now, then, fetch him along, lads ! We’ll teach the 
Gover’ment to send spies to arrest us ! ” 

Rangsley threw the noose over Will’s head, coming 
close up to him to draw it tight with a vicious jerk. 
“ I’ll teach you to come in Jack Rangsley’s path ! ” he 
said in his ear. “You thought you’d hang me and get 
me out of your way, did you? Well, it’s you who are 
to hang now. Take your leave of life; for in five 
minutes you’ll be a dead man.” 

A dozen arms pulled and pushed him forward to the 
doorway. The choking tightness of the rope round his 
throat gave him no room to think; he was conscious 
only of blind, passionate revolt and a pride that withheld 
him from futile resistance and caused him to stiffen his 
muscles and hold up his head. As they neared the 
doorway some one approached it from without, and 
finding the way barred by the table, laid hands on it 
and vaulted lightly over into the room. With a violent 
shock of relief and gratitude Will recognized John 
Friend. 

“ Hullo, lads! ” he cried out. “ Hullo, Squire! And 
Jack — how are you? What’s all this? What’s doing 
here ? ” 

“ Why, Squire Wood, ye’re just in time to see a little 
work o’ justice carried out. We’ve taken a spy, and are 
going to hang him.” 


1 88 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

But this is no spy, man ! Why, this is a young 
friend o’ my own, a lad called Will North I brought 
down with me to help me on a bit of an affair I have 
with Mayor Jempson of Hythe. Here’s some mistake^ 
my lads.” 

No mistake, no mistake. Wood,” growled the elder 
Rangsley. The fellow came with a warrant in his 
pocket, and actually had the impudence to clap up and 
carry off my brother Jack.” 

“ I swear it was a mistake. Squire,” returned Friend 
earnestly. I know the boy like my own son ; you didn’t 
understand his errand. He’d never heard o’ the Free 
Traders of Romney Marsh before I brought him down 
here three days ago. All he knows o’ Government is 
that he’s taking letters from Lord Nelson, God bless 
him, down to Pitt at Folkestone, letters of the highest 
importance about the war, and with all the plans of 
balking old Boney’s invasion. That’s all his errand. 
And throug'h some accident he has mislaid the letters, 
and has got some maggot or other in his brain which 
makes him pick out our friend Jack as the man who’s 
robbed him. He’s no spy; not he! He’s only a young 
fool with better meaning than brains, who don’t know 
his friends from foes. Let the lad go, my boys! I’ll 
be responsible for him. I’ll take him off with me, and 
pledge you my word he shall never set foot within 
twenty miles of the Marsh again. And I warn you, if 
he disappears, there’ll be the deuce of an inquiry after 
those letters of his.” 

There was an uncomfortable silence among the men. 
They looked at each other in doubt. Then Rangsley 

growled, '' But he’d got a warrant, by he had. 

Wood. He came with a couple o’ constables into the 
very house.” 

Well, and what better proof could you have that he 
knew no more o’ the Old Bourne Free Traders than the 


THE SMUGGLERS’ REVENGE 189 

babe unborn? If he'd really come from London with 
instructions to arrest you, d'ye think he'd ha' walked 
into the house to arrest Jack Rangsley with only a couple 
of constables? Why, he'd sooner ha' stuck his bare 
hand into a nest o' hornets to draw out the queen. No, 
if he'd really come from Government he'd ha' come 
with a troop of horse, and then ha' waited till he'd 
found Jack Rangsley drunk or off his guard away from 
all his friends. Why, the boy was mad! If I hadn't 
been off on business at Hythe this would never have 
happened. I'll look after him better in future. Come, 
loosen that rope from his throat; I’ll take him off with 
me ; and I promise you you shall have no further trouble 
with him. Hand us that knife, Jenny lass." 

Half unwillingly she passed him a knife; and partly 
pulling, partly cutting, he loosened the rope round the 
prisoner's neck and threw it to the ground. Then, taking 
firm hold of Will by the arm, he marched him resolutely 
to the door. “ Push aside that table, lads," he com- 
manded authoritatively. As if they hardly understood 
what was passing, two men obeyed him. Rangsley in- 
terposed as if to prevent them from leaving the room; 
Friend put him quietly aside. No, Jack, don't stop 
us," he said ; “ it'll be better for you to let him go. 
There are deep waters here, my friend. You must let 
me take him; he's not safe fish for your net." And 
pushing forward determinedly, he led Will out of the 
house. Two horses waited in the yard. “ Can ye mount, 
lad?" asked Friend. doubt they've mishandled you 
a bit." Will nodded; he could hardly speak, his throat 
was still so choked and swollen. But when he tried to 
swing himself into the saddle he found himself unable 
to raise his weight from the ground. Friend came be- 
hind him and hoisted him up as if he were helping a lady 
to mount. “ There, you're up now, young un ; you can 
sit tight in the saddle when once you're there, I trust. 


190 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Now then, let^s be off; the farther we get from Rangsley 
House the better for us/' 

They rode off at a brisk pace. Gradually Will re- 
vived; but they had gone some miles before he 
spoke. 

You got there just in time, Mr. Friend," he said, his 
voice shaking. “ What made you think of coming to 
my rescue ? " 

Why, lad," said Friend, smiling, when I got back 
to Copperhurst, Mrs. Rayner told me of your lunatic's 
scheme of getting a warrant for Jack Rangsley's arrest, 
and I set out at once. It needed no more weighing 
whether you were likely to want help or not than whether 
you'd want a poultice if you put your arm into a boiling 
kettle. You might as well have taken a magistrate's 
warrant to arrest a den of tigers. I warned you they 
were ugly customers, the Rangsleys. I hardly thought 
to get you out of their hands so easily." 

I shall be eternally grateful to you, Mr. Friend." 

‘‘Well, my boy, I believe you will before the night's 
over." Will did not understand his meaning, but was 
not yet in a condition to want explanations. They rode 
on in silence. 

It was past midnight when they arrived at Copper- 
hurst. Mrs. Rayner was sitting up for them, and had a 
couple of basins of steaming broth ready for their re- 
freshment. When they had despatched them they went 
upstairs to their rooms; Friend followed Will to his. 

“ I've been able to do you another service. Will," he 
said when the door was shut, looking rather confused or 
at least conscious ; “ I can't answer any questions as to 
how I've managed it; but I've got your packet back for 
you." He drew from an inner pocket of his coat a 
parcel ; Will tore it open, and beheld his missing papers, 
with the Government seal intact! He grasped Friend 
by the hand and tried to speak, but his voice failed him ; 


THE SMUGGLERS’ REVENGE 191 

he was not in time to repress a sob of gratitude. Friend 
wrung his hand. 

‘'You got them from — you made the thief give them 
up?” asked Will at last. 

“ I can't answer any questions, I tell you, my boy. 
There they are for you ; let that be enough. You'll find 
they are all safe.” 

Mr. Friend, I owe you more than my life to-night,” 
said Will brokenly. “ You have saved my life — you have 
saved my honor.” 

“ Tut-tut-tut ! ” exclaimed Friend, smiling impatiently. 
“ There, that's enough, young un. Good-night ; sleep 
well; and sleep off the day's excitements.” He left the 
room hastily. Will restored the precious packet to his 
pouch undressed and slung it over his shoulder, and lay 
down upon it so that it could not be withdrawn without 
awakening him. It was not conducive to his comfort, 
but so great was his fatigue that he immediately fell 
asleep and slept without stirring for nine hours. 

Friend meanwhile, smiling and pshawing to himself, 
went to bed with very mixed feelings. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


AN INTERVIEW WITH PITT 

Will reached Folkestone only to find that Pitt was 
still at Walmer, and had to journey on thither in order 
to fulfil his commission. He was bidden wait for a 
return message; and the next day was summoned to 
the Prime Minister's presence. Pitt looked disturbed 
and displeased. 

Do you know, young man," he said to Will, that 
these despatches have been tampered with ? " 

I had hoped they had remained unopened since the 
seals were unbroken," Will replied in a low voice. ‘‘ I 
acknowledge I had the misfortune to lose them. I was 
robbed on my way down." 

''You lost them! Robbed!" The mere voice was 
more terrible than a volley of reproaches. 

" I assure you, sir, I guarded them with the most 
jealous care. They must have been taken from the 
pouch while upon me without my knowledge. They 
never left my person day and night, except for one 
half-hour when I placed them in the care of a most 
trustworthy friend, who remained under my eyes while 
I was bathing," confessed the too ingenuous Will. 

" You had no right to allow them out of your care for 
a single second,” said Pitt. "You seem to be very 
little aware of the gravity of your responsibilities, young 
man. Who and what was this trusted friend of yours? " 

" Indeed^ sir, 'tis impossible that suspicion can attach 
to him. I have my own idea as to the guilty party; I 

ig2 


AN INTERVIEW WITH PITT 193 

may say I feel a practical certainty; but the condition 
of my recovery of the papers was that I should ask no 
questions; and as I believed that speed in delivering 
them safely into your hands was of prime importance, I 
was willing to postpone investigation until you should 
give your directions/' 

'‘And who is it you suspect, and why?" 

" A certain well-known smuggler and violent charac- 
ter on Romney Marsh, a Mr. Jack Rangsley. I fell in 
with him on my way down, and incautiously betrayed to 
him my errand. It appears he has a grudge against 
Government on account of the interference with the 
smuggling trade due to the presence of so many troops 
along the coast. In my hearing he indulged in many 
treasonable sentiments, to which I took exception, and 
a quarrel was the result. I have very little doubt that 
out of revenge he robbed me^ not so much with the idea 
of embarrassing the Government as of ruining me." 

Pitt listened with great attention. " And how did you 
succeed in recovering the documents ? " he asked. 

" They were recovered for me by my friend and com- 
panion, the gentleman to whom I have alluded, Mr. John 
Friend," said Will. " It appears — I know nothing of 
his affairs — but it seems he has a friendship of old 
standing with — with more than one family in the neigh- 
borhood of Romney Marsh. He warned me he could 
answer no questions; but I have no doubt he brought 
his influence to bear on Mr. Rangsley and induced him 
to give up the packet." 

" Then you think it was a freak of private malice, and 
of no political import at all ? " inquired Pitt. 

" Such is my belief. If I had had grounds for think- 
ing otherwise, it would have been my duty to lay my 
suspicions before you, sir, when handing you the packet. 
I had hoped the papers were intact." 

" It is obvious they have been opened and read, though 


194 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

the thief was too cunning to destroy the seals ; they have 
been carefully removed and replaced/’ said Pitt. “ Your 
explanation is plausible, sir, but it hardly satisfies me. 
Who is this Mr. John Friend? Is he the man by chance 
I met at the Lewes Review last May ? ” 

‘‘ I believe that would be the same, sir. He was stay- 
ing in Brighton last May.” 

‘‘ I think I know the man. And pray how came you 
to be traveling in his company?” 

‘‘ Mr. Friend is one of my closest and most trusted 
friends, sir. I owe everything to his kindness. When 
this important commission was intrusted to me I imme- 
diately told him of my good fortune. I may mention 
he is a close friend of Mr. Hunt, my superior at the 
Admiralty Office. As he had business down in Kent, 
he offered to ride with me, and I accepted his proposal 
with thankfulness.” 

Did you ride alone with him ? ” 

No; Mr. Friend had a companion.” 

‘‘Who and what?” 

“ — a — a friend,” stammered Will, torn between his 
innate frankness and his fear of betraying a confidence ; 
“ the gentleman traveled under the name of Mr. David 
Morgan, but I believe his nationality was really — ^^he was 
really a Frenchman. His business was purely private, 
I assure you, sir; but as he had put himself into con- 
siderable danger by his imprudence in coming to this 
country, Mr. Friend thought it best for him to travel in 
disguise.” 

“A Frenchman? Are you sure, sir? This is an 
extraordinary story. Are you aware that there was an 
alarm on this coast three or four weeks ago about a 
French spy who was known to have landed and who 
managed to escape arrest ? ” 

“ I had not heard of it, sir. This gentleman, Mr. 
Friend’s companion, came from London.” 


AN INTERVIEW WITH PITT 195 


How long had he been there ? ” 

‘‘ I am quite unaware, sir.” 

My information reports that the spy is supposed to 
have escaped to London.” 

'' I beg you to believe, sir, he could have had no con- 
nection with any friend of Mr. Friend's. He is a man 
of most unblemished honor and loyalty. I will answer 
for him with my life.” 

I think you a little too willing to answer for your 
friends, Mr. — ah — North. Can you tell me where this 
Frenchman who is passing under the name of Mr. David 
Morgan is now ? ” 

He has left England, I believe, sir.” 

'' Are you certain ? ” 

I may safely say so. Mr. Friend* told me he had 
seen him off.” 

When and where ? ” 

'' Four or five days ago, from Hythe.” 

''A nest of smugglers and traitors! Has Mr. Friend 
any connections at Hythe ? ” 

I am not aware, sir. I know nothing of his private 
affairs except what he has been good enough to tell me.” 

What has he told you then of his Kentish connec- 
tions ? ” 

I have seen he has a strong friendship for the family 
of a farmer called Rayner, at the village of Aldington ; 
and he mentioned he had known Mr. Rangsley for some 
years.” 

'' Is Mr. Friend connected with the smuggling trade? ” 

‘‘ I — I have no means of knowing,” stammered Will. 
‘‘ I do not conceive it is my duty to pry into my friends’ 
private affairs that they have not thought fit to confide 
to me.” 

“You are altogether too trustful and guileless for 
political affairs, Mr. North. The case looks to me rather 
black against Mr. Friend. I know something of him; 


196 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

I do not conceive him likely to be a man of squeamish 
honor.’’ 

I assure you, sir, that you are mistaken in your 
impression. I will answer for his honor with my life.” 

'' H’m ! ” said Pitt dryly. And are you equally ready 
to answer for this — this Mr. David Morgan’s honor ? ” 
I know little of Mr. Morgan,” replied Will. “ I 
believe him to be a man of character and honesty, since 
he was introduced to me by my most revered and trusted 
friend; but of my own knowledge I could say nothing 
of his character. He gave me the impression of being 
an open, honorable man.” 

'' Did he mention political subjects at all? ” 

Not once. Pie showed absolutely no interest in 
them. In fact, he struck me as being a man of pleasure, 
and very unlikely to entertain any serious interests.” 

Do you know how he reached England or how long 
he had been here ? ” 

Not at all.” 

‘‘If you knew anything of the care with which our 
coasts are guarded at the present crisis, Mr. North, you 
could not fail to be struck with the improbability, the 
almost impossibility, of two Frenchmen having landed 
in so short a space of time.” 

“ But I do not at all know that Mr. Morgan’s arrival 
was recent, sir. He may have been — probably has been 
residing in this country for months.” 

“ Then he would have papers.” 

“ He may have had them for aught I know,” replied 
Will boldly; “at least — I believe — I fancy Mr. Friend 
did acknowledge he had had the imprudence to come 
without them.” 

Pitt smiled dryly at the young man’s extreme in- 
genuousness. 

“ You were certainly not formed by Nature for a 
politician, Mr. North,” he said. “ I fear you have 


AN INTERVIEW WITH PITT 197 

become the dupe of an exceedingly clever man. Your 
theory may be true; but I should be greatly surprised 
if this Mr. David Morgan does not turn out to be a 
French spy.’' 

‘‘ I suppose it is possible that Mr. Friend, like other 
men, may occasionally be deceived in his friends’ char- 
acters,” replied Will; “but that he is absolutely ignorant 
and unsuspicious of anything dark or doubtful about 
Mr. Morgan’s errand, I feel an absolute certainty. No 
more open, honorable, and candid soul than Mr. Friend 
ever stood in the light of day.” 

“ Well, Mr. North, I must act on my own opinions. 
Your view may possibly chance to be the correct one; 
but I shall investigate the matter with the utmost care. 
In the meantime do not leave Walmer without express 
leave from me. These despatches must be answered; 
and if I find I have no need of your services in un- 
raveling this affair of their theft, I will employ you to 
carry the replies; but I warn you against traveling in 
the company of any friend whatsoever on your return 
journey, and particularly against letting the nature of 
your errand become known.” 

Will, understanding he was dismissed, bowed and re- 
tired ; feeling he had got off with less than he deserved. 

Nothing reached his ears as to the steps which Pitt 
was taking to investigate the theft; but the more he 
thought of the matter, the more uneasy he became as to 
the consequences of his indiscretion. He saw that 
Friend, of whose innocence he remained convinced, 
would be placed in a very disagreeable position if Sau- 
vignac were proved to be a spy, or even if the Govern- 
ment persisted in their suspicions. He resolved he must 
at all costs let him know his danger; although on their 
parting at Copperhurst Friend had warned him seriously 
to avoid the district of Romney Marsh for the future, 
telling him that if he were to fall a second time into 


198 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

the smugglers’ hands it was likely to go hard with him. 
He had no power to stir till Pitt should give him leave; 
and as the minister’s inspection of the Cinque Ports took 
him from Walmer to Dover and from. Dover to Folke- 
stone, Will had to follow in his train, chafing at his in- 
action and his prolonged absence from Susan. 

At the end of a week they were at Folkestone; and 
Pitt then made up his mind that nothing further was to 
be gained by keeping Will, made up, and handed to him 
the packet of answering despatches, and bade him be 
off to London without further delay. 

In his anxiety for his friend. Will persuaded himself 
that he should not be disobeying his instructions if he 
were to halt at Copperhurst on his way; the necessary 
warning might be given in ten minutes. But on his 
arrival he found that Friend had returned to Hythe, 
and he could not make it anything but a flat breach of 
his orders to retrace his steps after him there. Mrs. 
Rayner, however, came to his assistance. Why, my 
Bill’s just going in to Hythe,” she said; ‘‘you write 
a line to Squire Wood and send it by him.” 

I don’t know how to write as much as I want to 
say,” said Will downcast ; to see him’s what I want. 
I can’t go myself; there’s the chance of not finding 
him; and then my horse has cast a shoe, and I must 
take him to the blacksmith’s.” 

'' One of the lads shall do that for you, sir. Let 
Bill take a message, and ask the Squire to come up 
to-night or to-morrow morning. You can’t be off to 
London before to-morrow, so there’d be time to see 
the Squire to-night if so be he’s at home and Bill can 
get word o’ him; and if not, ye must e’en say as much 
as ye can in the note. Sure a scholard like you can 
make it plain enough.” 

Will agreed it was the best course, and withdrew to 
compose a note. To express himself in writing was 


AN INTERVIEW WITH PITT 199 

always a slow and difficult process to him ; but he finished 
at last, not greatly to his own satisfaction, and sent it 
off by Bill Rayner, who a couple of hours later delivered 
it as directed. 

Friend was a good deal perturbed by this note, for 
awkwardly expressed though it was, it clearly indicated 
danger. He decided he must see and question Will 
himself. He was looking for Sauvignac's return at 
any moment ; and he had promised his smuggling friends 
at Romney, who were deeply interested in the voyage 
of the All's Well and the landing of her cargo, to pass 
the night with them and give them all particulars of 
the plans for effecting it in defiance of the Revenue offi- 
cers. His visit to them could not be put off, as it 
was to their co-operation and to the Rangsleys that he 
chiefly trusted for mustering a sufficient force of men 
for his private purpose. He decided to leave a note 
for Sauvignac, to go to Romney as arranged, and to 
ride up thence to Copperhurst with the first light of 
day; and then, primed with all the information that 
Will could give him, to return to Hythe and regulate his 
proceedings and Sauvignac’s according to the imminence 
of the danger. He wrote his message and left it in a 
sure hand for delivery to Sauvignac at the moment 
of his landing, and then rode off. 

About nine o’clock that evening — it was the 4th of 
August — Sauvignac reached Hythe. He had gone 
straight to Napoleon at Fontainebleau, and had thence 
followed him to Boulogne on August the 3d; when, 
the Emperor’s plans being matured as far as was pos- 
sible in the absence of intelligence from his fleet, he 
was despatched back to Kent. News traveled slowly 
in those days. On his return from the West Indies the 
French admiral Villeneuve had fallen in with Sir Robert 
Calder some way off Cape Finisterre, and the engage- 
ment that followed had inclined to the advantage of the 


200 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

English; whereupon Villeneuve, after an agony of in- 
decision, decided to retire to Corunna, and thence a 
little later fell back to Cadiz. This skirmish with Cal- 
der, which really decided the fate of the projected 
invasion, took place on the 226 . of July; but Napoleon 
was still in ignorance of it on his arrival at Boulogne, 
where every day he expected his fleet to make its appear- 
ance, and sent Sauvignac to tell his English agent to 
have all prepared for the descent in the course of the 
next week. 

Sauvignac read Friend's note of warning with his usual 
light-hearted indifference to danger. Friend was not 
by him with his restraining hand; and a glorious idea 
darted into his head and filled him with mischievous 
glee. The theft of Will's letters had won him great 
encomiums from Napoleon. Now he learnt from Friend, 
there was North at Copperhurst^ barely five miles dis- 
tant, carrying doubtless the return despatches. He 
would steal up quietly after dark — most likely he would 
meet no one, and certainly would not be recognized — 
could easily effect an entrance into the old farmhouse, 
and would rob Will of the second packet. Of course 
it was a hazardous plan, but its foolhardiness only 
endeared it to him. If Will should wake and discover 
him, he would have no scruple in silencing him with a 
thrust from a knife. There was not much danger, after 
all, to a man who did not shrink from murder — when 
undertaken, be it understood, in the sacred cause of the 
Emperor. In that glorious service, what was the life 
of one insignificant foeman? He was prepared to sac- 
rifice his own with equal light-heartedness. M. Sau- 
vignac, far from being the mere man of pleasure Will 
thought him, was an enthusiast. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE FIGHT ON ALDINGTON KNOLL 

Between twelve and one at night, after he had 
snatched a couple of hours’ sleep, Sauvignac set out on 
his expedition. He went on foot for greater silence 
and safety; but as it was a very dark and misty night 
and he not well acquainted with the road, he missed 
his way once or twice, and it was nearly four before 
he reached Copperhurst Farm. Even then he found the 
night mists and darkness so impenetrable that he was 
not able to explore for a way of entrance, and was 
obliged to wait for the first glimmerings of dawn. When 
they appeared, and the outlines of the buildings and the 
dark blots of doors and windows began to grow on his 
sight, he went round the house till he stood below Will’s 
casement. It never occurred to him that his room 
might have been changed; his calculations were not of 
a nicety to consider such possibilities. It was as he 
thought ; a low outbuilding below the window offered an 
easy access, and the window itself most conveniently 
and invitingly stood open. 

There was no one about. Sauvignac thought he might 
as well wait till the light was stronger, and save himself 
the added risk of waking North with the rays of a lan- 
tern. The angle of the wall and a thick elderbush which 
brushed against the house would hide him if any early 
riser passed; in about half an hour he judged there 
would be light enough inside the chamber for his work. 


201 


202 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

When the time had passed he clambered lightly up to 
the roof, glanced round to see that no one was in sight, 
and squeezed himself cautiously in at the narrow win- 
dow. 

Fortune favored him. It was North who slept on 
the pallet bed. Sauvignac glanced sharply about for 
the papers, expecting to see the pouch that contained 
them among the clothes on the chair or hanging on the 
wall. He could not see it; he looked again at the 
sleeper and spied the strap of the wallet across his 
shoulder. He shrugged his shoulders; but he was not 
going to hold back now. He drew out his knife, ready 
to plunge it into North’s throat at the slightest move- 
ment, and crept like a crouching cat towards the bed. 

Suddenly, without a movement of warning, Will woke 
up. Some subtle sense of presence probably disturbed 
him. Without a sign or a sound he started broad 
awake. Sauvignac, who was not four feet away from 
him, saw his eyes open, and threw himself upon him 
in a flash. But Will had awakened with all his facul- 
ties alert; he started up as Sauvignac leapt, and seized 
the threatening knife with a clutch of iron. There was 
a desperate struggle. Sauvignac saw he had lost the 
throw; slighter in build and inferior in muscular power 
he was no match for North. After one frantic attempt 
to snatch the wallet from Will’s shoulder he abandoned 
his aim and concentrated all his efforts on wriggling 
out of his grip. He had to let go his knife; he twisted 
and writhed like an eel; Will threw himself upon him, 
but he slipped out of his coat and escaped from his 
grasp. Overbalanced by the sudden withdrawal of his 
enemy. Will stumbled forward, and before he could 
recover himself Sauvignac was half out of the window. 
He jumped up and rushed at him, but too late; he was 
only in time to see him drop lightly to the ground and 
make off in the morning mist. 


THE FIGHT ON ALDINGTON KNOLL 203 

Half dazed, Will picked up the coat and sat down on 
the bed. His senses could not be playing him false. 
It was Mr. Morgan, who Friend had told him had sailed 
from England more than a week ago. It was Morgan; 
and what was he doing, attempting robbery in the first 
light of dawn? What interest had he in Pitt's des- 
patches? With a groan Will admitted the truth that 
forced itself upon him: Morgan was, after all, the sus- 
pected French spy; Pitt was right; it was Morgan who 
had robbed him before. And Friend? But it was 
impossible that he should be anything but the deceived 
and betrayed, the honorable victim of the foreigner. 
Then how had he been able to recover the packet ? Will 
put the thought from him with horror as something 
poisonous; and began to turn out the pockets of Sau- 
vignac's coat. There was a silver spirit-flask in one, 
and in another a crumpled paper. Will smoothed it 
out and took it to the light. His heart stood still as 
he recognized Friend's writing. 

‘^Dear S." (it ran), — '‘An urgent message from 
young North calls me to Copperhurst. I shall be back 
by ten o'clock to-morrow morning. I fancy P — t may 
have taken the alarm; he could not miss seeing the 
packet had been opened. So keep absolutely quiet. I 
will make all further arrangements; don't you stir from 
the house ; it is most important your presence should not 
be known. The affair is hanging by a thread; every- 
thing depends now on avoiding talk. Be careful. — 
Yours. “ H. Dubois." 

The signature meant nothing to Will, but the writing 
and the mention of his own name precluded any thought 
of mistake. He sat stupefied. The accursed thing was 
plain beyond all possibility of doubt. As he sat and 
thought, rage began to grow in his mind and gradually 


204 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

displaced every other thought. How he had been duped ! 
Doubtless it was Friend’s own hand that had robbed 
him — yes, while he was bathing in the mill-pool in Poles- 
hanger Wood. And the villain — the devil — had pre- 
tended to sympathize with him in his loss and had 
affected to help him to recover the papers ! 

Will sprang up, grinding his teeth with rage and 
thrusting at the air with Sauvignac’s knife. He was 
beside himself with fury. Ah, he had written to the 
monster, who would no doubt be riding up from Hythe 
early in the morning; he would meet him and give him 
a reception he little looked for! He might be coming 
soon ; he might even now be on his way. Will hurried 
into his clothes. It was fully daylight now. He would 
intercept him on the road and take him where they could 
settle their differences without interruption. Burning 
with lust of vengeance he hastened out of the house. 

The morning was dull, but the thick mists of the night 
were beginning to disperse. Dewdrops hung from 
every leaf and every blade of grass. Will looked up 
the road and down; Friend would come westward from 
Hythe. He paced along the lane till he reached the 
highroad; but no one was in sight. He turned and 
went back to the farm, planning how he would lead 
Friend up to the quiet slopes around the Knoll, where 
the surrounding woods would hide them from observers. 
He waited for some twenty minutes, his anger con- 
centrating itself and intensifying as he waited. The 
more he remembered how he had loved and idolized 
Friend, the more fiercely burnt his rage. Again he went 
up towards the highroad and returned; as he neared 
the house he saw a man on horseback approaching him 
up the road from the Marsh. It was Friend. 

Hullo, Will ! ” he exclaimed in his deep, mellow 
voice. So you’re ready waiting for me, eh ? ” 

Will went to meet him and stopped his horse opposite 


THE FIGHT ON ALDINGTON KNOLL 20? 

the gate that led into the field surrounding the Knoll. 
‘‘ Come in here/' he said ; “ we can talk quietly here. I 
donH want “to be interrupted." 

Friend dismounted, threw the bridle over the gate- 
post, and turned into the field followed by Will. ‘‘ Well, 
youngster, what's the matter? " he asked as they mounted 
the slope. Will would not reply. They reached the 
ridge, and Will motioned to go on down the further 
slope, to a corner of the field shut in by woods on two 
sides, and screened by the rocky mound of the Knoll 
from the road and house. 

‘‘Well, young man, what's the matter with you?" 
asked Friend again, “ There's something wrong. What 
is it?" 

“ There is something wrong," said Will, suddenly 
stopping and facing him. “ You are wrong, Mr. Friend. 
I have been making some discoveries about you." 

“ About me, lad ? And what, pray, have you dis- 
covered about me?" The pleasant geniality vanished 
from his tone; there was a ring of hard mockery in his 
voice. 

“I have discovered you to be a traitor, sir!" ex- 
claimed Will, his passion leaping to the fore ; “ I have 
discovered you to be a false traitor to your country 
and to your friend! You have, betrayed me — you and 
none other. You — you villain!" 

“What's all this about?" asked Friend coolly. 
“ What's all this nonsense ? " 

“No nonsense; I have proof. I would not have 
believed less than my own eyes; no mortal tongue could 
have made me believe it. Nay, who could have be- 
lieved such devlish villainy — such execrable perfidy? 
Doesn't it exceed all belief?" 

“ I don't know what in the world you are talking 
about," said Friend contemptuously. “ Will you please 
to explain yourself? And am I to understand that this 


2o6 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

discovery, whatever it is, is the matter on which you sent 
for me?'’ 

No; I sent for you for your own sake, to serve you, 
to warn you. Up till this morning I had not a suspicion, 
not a doubt — they warned me of you in vain, and I would 
not believe them! But now you stand unmasked. I 
have your own hand to condemn you ! ” • 

“ Will you kindly have the goodness to tell me what 
you're talking about? I can't understand one word," 
said Friend with an excellent assumption of scorn, 
though his color had somewhat paled. 

‘‘ Villain, you understand me well enough. You are 
a traitor, sir! You and your friend Mr. Morgan are 
French spies; it was you who robbed me of my des- 
patches before. And your friend has been at his tricks 
again this morning; he entered my chamber at dawn 
and attempted to rob me of the Government papers I 
carry. Fortunately for himself he escaped, but he left 
his coat in my hands, and in it I found — if his attempt 
was not sufficient evidence — a note from you which 
proves your complicity." 

Friend did not speak for a moment. He was occu- 
pied in mentally cursing Sauvignac's folly and in a rapid 
review of the situation. 

‘‘ And pray, what do you intend to do about it ? " he 
asked at length, with unaltered composure and in the 
same scornful voice. 

‘‘ Denounce you to the Government, of course — and 
obtain his arrest." 

“And I am to wait here while you do it? No, my 
ingenuous young friend, you expect a little too much. 
My life is at stake; — and yours. Don't you understand, 
you fool ? " 

His hand had slidden down into his pocket ; there was 
a click of which Will did not realize the import. He 
had begun to ask “ It is a fight, then ? " when he found 


THE FIGHT ON ALDINGTON KNOLL 207 

himself looking into the mouth of a pistol not three 
feet from his head. It was well for him that he had 
been trained in the ring, and that his fist was readier 
than his wits. Quicker than thought his arm shot out, 
and caught Friend on the shoulder as he fired. Friend 
staggered and the ball flew wide; Will was upon him 
with blow after blow; he dropped the pistol and turned 
to* defend himself. Then Will found he had met his 
match. He showered in his blows as it seemed from 
all sides at once, but Friend met them everywhere with 
a guard he could not break. Quickness and activity 
were Will’s strong points; he had overcome many a 
stronger man than himself by the bewildering rapidity 
of his attack; and here he had the advantage of three 
extra inches of height and a longer reach; yet not 
a blow could he get home. Meanwhile in his excite- 
ment he neglected his own guard. Friend seized his 
chance; he let out a tremendous sledge-hammer drive 
before which Will went down like a child. 

Friend threw himself upon him as he fell. They 
rolled on the ground wrestling for mastery. Friend 
was the heavier and the stronger ; Will had no chance in 
the grip of his mighty muscles. He struggled for dear 
life; sometimes for a moment he got uppermost, and 
strove with the fury of despair against the irresistible 
force that pressed him down again. His strength ebbed 
away in convulsive efforts ; at every movement he found 
himself at a fresh disadvantage. His arms pinioned 
beneath him, exhausted and choking for breath, at last 
he gave in and lay motionless beneath his antagonist’s 
knee. There was no sound but the quick hard panting 
of both. 

Will was nearly bursting with chagrin. With his 
knowledge of fighting he knew he ought not to have 
fallen so easy a victim. It should have been an easy 
matter to him to avoid Friend’s blow^ quick on his 


208 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

feet and long of arm as he was; but, beside himself 
with passion, he had lost his head and thrown away 
the fight like any novice. His vexation with himself 
took the form of fury with his opponent. He saw 
him slip his hand into a pocket and pull out a pistol. 
His heart beat frightfully. He could only glare in 
helpless rage; he was absolutely powerless. 

‘‘ It is your life or mine,’’ said Friend behind clenched 
teeth. '‘You die, or I hang.” 

He pulled the trigger — the pistol missed fire. He 
flung it from him and drew out a knife. He poised it 
over his victim’s throat. Will shut his eyes, almost 
senseless with fright. He felt his skin creep as the 
knife touched — it lingered, tickling. The agony was 
unspeakable. Will recalled how he had faced the bul- 
lets of the Rangsleys without a tremor, and raged at 
himself for his inability to command himself now. What 
made the difference? Perhaps it had been the cruel, 
hostile faces surrounding him then that had stiffened 
his nerves — the faces that were watching eagerly for the 
least sign of weakness in order to gloat over ^ it; and, 
moreover, the fact that among them there were women. 
And then he had been on his feet, bound and defenseless 
it is true, but erect and on a level with his tormentors — 
a man among men. Now he lay helpless on his back, 
pinned by inexorable strength, below a weight as resist- 
less as if the whole mass of the Knoll were pressing him 
down. He was overpowered, done for. There was 
nothing to do but to lie and wait till the tickling knife 
should prick — and then with one sharp piercing pang 
should somehow effect that unthinkable separation, 
should remorselessly rend the indivisible life away from 
the warm palpitating body. 

Still the stroke delayed. He opened his eyes. Friend 
hurled the knife away and exploded with a great oath. 
“ Damnation ! I can’t ! ” he cried hoarsely. He with- 


THE FIGHT ON ALDINGTON KNOLL 209 

drew his knee and rose to his feet. Get up, fellow ; 
and take yourself off to the Devil as fast as you can,’’ 
he said, kicking Will in the ribs. He went to pick up 
his knife and returned it to its sheath; then he sought 
for and replaced the two pistols. Will was nearly 
stifled wdth the beating of his heart ; sick and trembling, 
he could not move. 

Friend stood over him and looked at him for a second. 
‘‘You’re all right,” he said. “You’ll be on your feet 
again in half an hour. It’s me that death has got by 
the throat now.” 

He strode away, and Will was left on the grass alone. 


CHAPTER XX 


THE INDIGNATION OF MONSIEUR SAUVIGNAC 

Friend mounted his horse and rode off to Hythe, 
marveling at himself. By sparing Will he had given 
the lie to his whole life, had blasted the efforts of years. 
The attempt to understand his forbearance made his 
head reel, and in disgust and bewilderment he turned 
from it to consider the action before him. The first 
thing to be done was to provide for the safety of Sau- 
vignac, who would be at his Hythe lodgings, but could 
not now remain there. He rode quickly and reached 
his rooms before seven o’clock, but the Frenchman had 
already left them. There was a little inn called ‘‘ The 
Dog and Duck,” the landlord of which was known as 
a safe friend to smugglers ; he had taken Sauvignac there 
on his previous visit ; and now decided to seek hir^here. 
The necessity was pressing; muttering a curse at having 
no time to stay. Friend dashed off again. He knew he 
was leaving various compromising papers to the author- 
ities who would doubtless raid the rooms; but it never 
once occurred to him to abandon Sauvignac. He could 
not afford to lose a minute. The fellow is no more 
fit to go about this business alone than a child of two,” 
he muttered angrily to himself; “the idea of playing 
the fool like this at such a moment! And for such 
a trifle — what did the blasted letters matter ? He’s 
brought us both to the gallows with his harebrained 
tricks.” 


210 


INDIGNATION OF M. SAUVIGNAC 21 1 


Half an hour of hard riding brought him to The Dog 
and Duck/’ and there to his relief was Sauvignac. He 
ordered breakfast, and joined him. 

‘‘ Well, monsieur; here’s a pretty mess that you’ve got 
us into,” he said. 

Ah, so you have heard of my little escapade ? A 
pity it turned out so unsuccessfully. I thought I should 
do a fine stroke for the cause.” 

'' And instead of that you’ve ruined us all,” said 
Friend, cutting a liberal helping of cold beef. 

I am glad to see your prospective ruin does not 
affect your appetite,” returned Sauvignac. 

I don’t know when I am likely to get another meal, 
and I seem as safe here now as anywhere,” replied 
Friend. You’d better join me, Sauvignac. The dick- 
ens knows when we shall eat next. We’ve got to fly 
for our lives.” 

“ How so ? What new has happened ? ” 

'' Why, young North has recognized you, and found 
my note in your coat pocket (why the deuce did you 
stuff it in there instead of burning it?) and if off hot- 
foot to denounce us both. He sees the whole game 
now.” 

‘‘How do you know? How have you found out?” 

“ I’ve seen him this morning. He wrote, you know, 
to tell me to come up, saying Pitt’s suspicions were 
roused. He’d something else to say by the time we met ; 
it was a denunciation, not a warning, he had ready 
for me when I got to Copperhurst. We ought to be 
grateful to him for waiting to tell me of his kind in- 
tentions first. Any one else would have gone to the 
magistrate before he taxed me with treachery.’ 

“ You met him, and heard his plans, and let him go? ” 

“Yes, I did. I made him a present of my life, and 
yours, and all the Emperor’s chances that lay in my 
hands — and made him a bow and rode away.” 


212 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Are you then mad ? ’’ 

If you like/’ 

But — but what happened? Did you not fight? Were 
you overpowered ? ” 

'' No. We fought and I got the better of him. I 
had my knee on his chest, my knife at his throat. I 
should have done the job if my pistol had not failed me; 
I pulled the trigger, but it missed fire. I stopped there. 

When it came to the knife ” He broke off. The 

unaccountableness of his action overcame him. It pro^ 
duced a feeling of unreality in his mind; he did not 
know himself. 

You turned fool — you spared his life, with our secret 
and our lives in his hand? You gave up our Emperor’s 
cause for a scruple ? ” 

‘‘ I never felt a scruple in my life,” said Friend, mak- 
ing an effort to recover himself. But my knife’s my 
own. I did as I chose.” 

'‘You had no right to choose!” cried Sauvignac. 
"You are the Emperor’s man, not your own. The 
conquest of England is at stake ! ” 

Friend muttered something that sounded like a curse 
on the Emperor. 

" What am I to make of you, Dubois ? ” pursued the 
Frenchman. " Have you forgotten for whom you 
work? You say you have no scruples; why then do 
you hang back? Is not our cause the most glorious 
in the world? It ennobles us all who work iii it; a 
man may fitly give his life and all that he has for this. 
I have thought you happy that you have a country you 
can sacrifice for the Emperor ; you have made that sacri- 
fice; you have rid yourself of all scruples, and yet you 
hang back now? Think who it is you work for.” 

"That’s all very fine for you; but my point of view 
is different,” said Friend. " I don’t care for your Em- 
peror. He has paid me well; that’s all I want of him. 


INDIGNATION OF M. SAUVIGNAC 213 

But there are things it seems money can^t pay for,” he 
concluded meditatively, dropping his voice. 

‘'Can’t pay for! Money! Are these your motives? 
I do not believe it of you, Dubois. It is impossible. 
Men like you do not betray their country for money. 
It is because you have seen and known my Emperor for 
what he is, — one born to be the master of the world.” 

“ Damn your Emperor,” said Friend. “ I care noth- 
ing for him; no more than I do for poor old lunatic 
George, or Pitt and all his cobwebs. The man who pays 
me best is the man for me; the man who offers me the 
most intricate task and the highest reward. If Pd been 
born a Frenchman I should have sold your blasted Em- 
peror to Pitt.” 

“You curse the Emperor to my face?” cried Sau- 
vignac, laying his hand on his sword-hilt. “ Wretch, 
you shall die for this ! ” 

“ Don’t draw your sword, Sauvignac,” said Friend 
coolly. “ As you see, I have not mine. I apologize 
for the curse; it was quite unnecessary.” 

The two men gazed fixedly at each other. 

“ If you apologize,” growled Sauvignac at length, “ I 
can say no more. You wish to make a fool of me, I 
see. But come, let us stop this joking. What steps 
can still be taken? We must consider that. Can we 
not waylay him yet ? How long is it since he started ? ” 

“ It is no use pursuing him. It was not six o^clock 
when I left him. The matter will be in the hands of 
the magistrates by now.” 

“ We must pursue him. We may catch him yet; and 
what can the magistrates do without his evidence ? Du- 
bois, he must die. It is necessary. Come, man ! Which 
way did he go ? ” 

“ It is no use, I tell you. If it were — if we could 
catch the lad and hold him safe till the affair is over, I’d 
be with you, for I’ve no particular wish to be hanged; 


214 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

but it is too late now. He’s on the road to London by 
this time, or closeted with the authorities at Hythe.” 

‘‘ If you knew which! We might stop him yet. We 
are two. Come, Dubois! Where are your wits ? You 
have saved us in many a more difficult strait than this. 
You, so ready of plan, so full of resource! Wake up, 
man, and say what we had better do. Remember your 
own life is at stake.” 

I have lost the throw already,” said Friend. ‘‘ I am 
fey, I think — as the Scotch call it. I can see nothing 
to do.” He spoke absently, almost as if in a dream. 
Sauvignac gazed at him in astonishment. 

But think, man ! How can we stop him ? He may 
have been seen on the road. We can inquire at the 
Rayners’; he will certainly have told them.” 

‘'And how can we show ourselves there if he has?” 

“We will not show ourselves. Leave it to me; I can 
manage it. I have a friend there on whom I can rely; 
a private signal to the lovely Dolly, and she will meet 
me secretly and tell me all she knows. It will be quite 
safe; quite safe. Oh, leave that to me, mon cher. I 
will arrange it.” 

“ You don’t go to the Rayners’ house again,” said 
Friend determinedly. 

“ And why not ? When it is our only chance ? What 
do you mean ? ” 

“ What I mean is that I’d rather see you hanged than 
stealing private meetings with Dolly. The Rayners are 
good friends of mine, and I’ll not see their daughter 
ruined.” 

“ Their daughter ruined ! Absurd ! Madness ! As 
if I should think of love when things are as serious as 
this!” 

“You have done enough mischief there already. You 
shall not go again to make the girl miserable for life.” 

“Imbecile! Lunatic! To think of girls and such 


INDIGNATION OF M. SAUVIGNAC 215 

follies now ! What are ten thousand girls to our affair ? 
— I see how it is; you want her for yourself/’ 

‘‘ You’re the lunatic now. Look here, Sauvignac, ride 
after North if you like; he’ll probably take the London 
road; I’ll help you, as long as you spare his life, if 
you will give me your sacred word of honor never to see 
Dolly Rayner again.” 

There speaks the jealous lover! I thought I should 
find you out some day, my fine fellow! So this is it; 
the scorner of women, the man of austere morals, has 
been carrying on an intrigue in this quiet corner with 
pretty Dolly Rayner ! ” Only he used a word for which 
intrigue ” is no adequate translation. 

“ You are quite wrong,” said Friend coolly. It’s 
the family I care for; not the girl.” 

‘‘ And he boasts of his morals and sets up to be a 
pattern to youth and would keep his young friend in 
the path of virtue ! ” cried Sauvignac with bitter disgust. 
“ Hypocrite ! I suspected you with your strait-laced 
airs all along. Now I have found you out. And you 
pose as a friend to the parents. Vile hypocrite! You 
make me proud of my own character; an open libertine 
like I am is a saint beside you.” 

“You are absolutely wrong,” said Friend. “I detest 
a hypocrite as much as you do; there’s none of that 
in me. Have you no eye for men, man? Can’t you 
believe in some being different from yourself?” 

“ Thank heaven I am different from you,” returned 
Sauvignac, hotly as ever. “ I am no traitor to boast 
of my sordid motives, to damn the hand that feeds me, 
and desert my master at the critical moment. I thought 
I had a comrade in you; I was mistaken. You are un- 
worthy of the confidence of a gentleman. Our ways 
part here.” 

“ Stop a minute, Sauvignac. We cannot part yet. 
We must discuss what we can yet save from the fire^ 


2i6 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

and what to do for our own necks. If you fall into 
the Government’s hands, all’s up indeed. The first 
thing to do is to get you across in safety.” 

The first thing to do is to stop North. Curse it, 
it may yet be done. With better horses we may over- 
take him ; and we have the money. Will you join me 
in this, Dubois? You take one road and I the other. 
If you will aid me to waylay and silence North, I will 
endeavor to forget what has passed.” 

” I will, on condition that his life is spared.” 

‘‘ His life spared! Madness! Nothing but his death 
can make us safe.” 

His life shall not be touched with my consent,’^ re- 
peated Friend. Call it what you please; I’m a lunatic 
if you like: but if it comes to a choice between the 
Emperor Napoleon and young Will North, why, I throw 
up my cap for the youngster.” 

'‘You dare to say so? To my face? You are a 
villain and a traitor, Dubois. Draw your sword, man; 
I am going to kill you.” 

“ My sword’s at Hythe,” said Friend. “ I have pistols 
at your service if you are really serious; but I think 
you’re a fool. You can get no good by killing me, and 
you’ll make yourself an infinity of trouble. How are 
you going to deal with the Hythe men without me? 
Come, man, give over; I’ve no wish to injure the cause; 
I’m willing to do all I can for it yet if you promise not 
to harm North. All’s not lost. North knows nothing 
about the All's WelL Our lads will still be on the beach 
as arranged to run the cargo, and they’ll fall in with 
the military there; if you and I can only save our necks 
and our papers all may go on well without us. But 
if we are caught, all’s up indeed.” 

“ It is true we must not be taken. But to leave so 
delicate a job to chance! Dubois, you are a traitor. 
To wreck so fine a scheme for a miserable sentiment! 


INDIGNATION OF M. SAUVIGNAC 217 

But I cannot catch North alone. I have no help for 
it; we must look now to ourselves. Lead on; you go, 
I suppose, to Hythe. I must trust you, though you do not 
deserve it. Some day I may be able to give you your 
deserts. To-day I must look to you to get me out of 
the country.'’ 

We'll have a try ; but I can promise nothing," said 
Friend. ‘'We can't show ourselves in Hythe; that'll be 
the first place to be roused. We must give up the 
papers; I had no time to dispose of them. If they 
seize them, as they are pretty sure to do, it'll go 
devilish hard with me if I am taken. We'll make 
for Dymchurch; we may find a boat there to put us 
across." 

They finished their meal, and rode down to Dym- 
church. The Marsh was very lonely, and they passed 
no one on the road but a small boy driving a cow. No 
boat was to be had. The fishermen were all out at sea ; 
the village was almost deserted. They rode on west- 
ward. Once a party of soldiers passed at a trot with- 
out noticing them. “ They are going to warn the coast, 
depend upon it," said Friend. 

To the west of Dymchurch a long stretch of coast 
extends, flat, barren^ and dreary, all the way to Dunge- 
ness. There are few houses in the region to this day; 
then there were fewer still. They passed but one hovel 
where a boat was drawn up on the beach. Friend in- 
quired if the master would take them across in it; but 
was told he lay sick of the ague. “ What think you, 
Morgan?" said Friend. “Could we two manage the 
boat? Will you hire her to us, dame?" 

But the woman flatly refused. They needed the boat, 
she said; besides, she has no mast. Without a sail 
the thing was impossible. They rode on. They came 
to the hamlet where now New Romney stands. There 
were but three or four miserable cottages clustered round 


2i8 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

the inn. Friend rode up to it; a clean new bill was 
glistening on the doorpost. 

'' £500 Reward for the Apprehension of the Body of 
one John Friend, alias Henry Wood, alias Dubois; also 
of one Frangois Sauvignac, alias David Morgan,” looked 
him in the face. 

'' So they’ve billed us already,” he said coolly to Sau- 
vignac. Young North’s not such a fool as I took him 
for after all. He’s gone straight to Hythe. It was a 
good move of his.” 

There’ll be a hue and cry after us directly,” said 
Sauvignac. 

Yes. If we can’t get a boat here we’ll go for the 
night to Romney. I know a place there where we should 
be safe. But we must get off by this tide if we can.” 

No boat, however, could be had; and they rode inland 
to Romney. Friend tapped cautiously at a back door 
with his riding-whip. A footstep was heard, and the 
door opened a crack; Friend gave the watchword, ‘‘ Snuff 
and Enough.” On that the door was opened, and they 
were led into a back kitchen or wash-house. 

‘‘ Well, Carter, we’re in trouble ; the bloodhounds are 
after us,” said Friend. ‘‘Can ye hide us for a while? 
Will any boat be going out next tide or so ? ” 

“ We can hide you a while. Squire, and w,elcome; but 
there’s no boat going to-night. There’s one to-morrow, 
if she’s not over-full already; she’s taking a crew out 
to the Jumping Joan o’ Hastings; they might be able 
to crowd one o’ you in. I doubt if they could manage 
both.” 

“If not both, then one must go,” said Friend. “ Mor- 
gan, it must be you; I can shift for myself better than 
you. I know every hole and corner along this coast; 
when you’re once off my hands I shall be all right.” 

“ I cannot go and leave you in danger,” said Sau- 
vignac. 


INDIGNATION OF M. SAUVIGNAC 219 

‘'You can only double my danger by staying/' re- 
plied Friend. " Perhaps after all they'll be able to take 
us both. I wish we could get off to-night ; but we can't 
afford to be particular. Thank 'ee, Carter, you're a 
true friend in need. We can lie snug enough in your 
cellar if you'll give us a bite and a sup to keep the life 
in us. The trapdoor is behind here, isn't it ? " 

They pushed aside a great oaken press or cupboard; 
it moved easily without a sound. Beneath it, carefully 
sanded over, a trapdoor was disclosed and opened, from 
which a ladder led down into a vast vaulted cellar. 
Sauvignac and Friend descended. " Here we shall be 
safe^ though all Romney Marsh were as thick with red- 
coats as it is with reeds," said Friend. 

" My faith, the lodging is not sumptuous," said Sau- 
vignac, glancing at the walls which glistened with damp. 
The great cellar was empty save for one or two casks 
in a corner. Their host brought them provisions and 
a bundle of straw on which to sleep. It was not yet 
three in the afternoon; and when they had eaten the 
time passed slowly enough. They dared only converse 
in the lowest tones for fear of being overheard. Sau- 
vignac kept up his spirits well; he made jokes and 
hummed amatory songs under his breath. Friend, 
though not so gay, was cheerful and composed again 
as usual. He did all he could for the comfort of his 
companion; he took the dampest side of the cellar for 
himself, and the scantest share of straw, when at last 
it grew dark and they lay down to sleep. The air 
struck chill as the night wore on, and Sauvignac kept 
waking and muttering half-audible curses on the cold. 
At last he slept on with a sensation of warmth and 
comfort, and only woke in the morning to find himself 
covered with Friend's coat. Softened by the perception 
of his generosity, he forgot his wrath, and they became 
once more excellent comrades. 


220 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

The next day passed heavily away, each hour drag- 
ging itself more slowly than the last. At about nine 
o’clock they emerged, and went down to the coast to 
meet the boat. There were ten men already in her. 
They demurred a good deal about taking another pas- 
senger; Friend talked to them persuasively and ur- 
gently, and promised a large reward. 

D — n you, waste no more time,” said one at last 
impatiently. We ought to ha’ started a quarter-hour 
ago. Let your man get in if he’s coming.” 

At the last minute Sauvignac was smitten with a 
scruple. ‘'You risk your life to save mine, Dubois,” he 
cried. “ There is but one chance between us, and you 
give it to me! Never will Franqois* Sauvignac redeem 
his life at the expense of his friend’s! Go you; I 
stay.” 

“ Nonsense, man ! ” cried Friend indignantly. “ Get 
in and don’t waste precious time.” 

“Now, then, is the gentleman coming? • ’Cause we 
can’t wait no longer,” said the man who had refused to 
take them. 

“ Go you; go, my friend, and save thyself. I remain ; 
it is fixed,” said Sauvignac. He stood immovable. The 
men dipped their oars; the boat moved out. Friend 
stooped and rushed at Sauvignac, struck him violently 
behind the knees so that he fell backwards, hoisted him 
over his shoulder, and dashed up to the waist into the 
water. He seized the boat just before it passed out of 
reach, and pitched Sauvignac in, helpless as a sack of 
flour. A roar of laughter and curses greeted this feat. 
The men bent to their oars, and the boat shot out over 
the sea. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE EARTHS ARE STOPPED 

And now/' said Friend to himself as he stood alone 
and dripping on the beach, ‘‘ this part of the world is 
decidedly too hot to hold me, though my sensations at 
this minute would not precisely suggest it. Til strike 
northward, and beat the Thames coast from Thanet to 
Gravesend; and it's odd if I can't find a vessel to carry 
me out. I'm too well known down here, and that's 
the truth." 

Soaked to the skin from the waist downward, on foot 
and in the darkness. Friend set out. He soon walked 
off the chill of his wetting. When day came he hid in 
a haystack, and continued his journey by night. For 
all the following day, and for the next ; for the succeed- 
ing day, and for a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth. 
Friend trudged along the shore of the Thames estuary, 
questioning, seeking, looking in all directions for escape 
and finding none. He dared not show himself in the 
larger ports where the military were on guard and every 
one stopd on the alert; in the smaller hamlets a vessel 
was hard to find, and the inquiry at once roused suspi- 
cion. Quick as his brain was, he was sorely taxed to 
invent plausible explanations of his business. His 
clothes, stained and shrunken with weather, were wear- 
ing out; fatigued, and harassed in spite of himself with 
anxiety, he no longer presented an appearance to inspire 
confidence. His money, too, was dwindling fast. He 
had in his possession bank bills to a large amount; but 


221 


222 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

of what avail were they to him when he could not cash 
them? His position was growing desperate. 

It seems to me the earths are stopped/' he murmured 
to himself. '' I must back to London. It is, after all, 
the safest place in the world for a man who wants to 
disappear. I will rest and refit; and then have a try 
in the West." 

Mrs. Friend had been in bed for some hours when 
she was aroused by a gentle pertinacious tapping below. 
She peered through the window but could see nothing; 
it sounded as if some one was knocking softly on the 
area door. She went down to see^ trembling as she 
did so, partly from apprehension of robbers, for she 
was very nervous and sorely subject to fanciful terrors; 
and partly from the vague but ever-present strain of 
anxiety with regard to her husband under which she 
lived. She cautiously unbolted the door and peeped 
out. As soon as she opened it Friend slipped into the 
house. 

Well, Polly, my little woman, here I am again ! " 
he exclaimed in very low tones, clasping her in his 
arms. 

"‘My dearest! This is joy! . . . But how worn and 
tired you look ! " she exclaimed when he at last released 
her. 

“ Yes, Polly^ I have had a pretty hard time. Come 
upstairs and Fll tell you. Be quiet, my love; no one 
must know Pm in the house." 

Her heart sank with the presentiment of evil. They 
went upstairs, and he locked the door of the bedroom. 

“ Are you hungry ? " she asked. “ Shall I get you 
something to eat ? " 

“ No, love, thank you. Fll wait till morning. Fm 
all right now Fm at home. Polly, it is good to be at 
home with you again!" He threw himself into the 
high-backed armchair. 


THE EARTHS ARE STOPPED 


23 


‘'You are tired out, my love. And oh, look at your 
clothes! And your boots! . . . Friend, you are in 
danger.” 

“ Don't concern yourself about that, my dear,” said 
Friend easily, preventing her as she would have taken 
off his boots for him. “ Fll do that, love. Put me 
out a suit ready, will you, and some clean linen? Fve 
not had my clothes off for a week. Ah, but Fm weary, 
and it's good to be at home ! ” 

“ Here are your things, but you do not want them 
now? You will surely go to bed and sleep?” 

“Yes, dear; but I must have all ready for the morn- 
ing. I must make an early start, before any one is up. 
Let no one know I've been home, Polly.” 

Her heart felt like lead in her breast as she heard 
him. “ You are in danger. Friend,” she repeated. 

“ Oh well, love^ that's nothing new,” he laughed. 
“ I’m always more or less in danger. It needn't spoil 
your night's rest, dearest.” 

“ But this is something new,” she urged. “ Tell me, 
my love. Is it the law ? Is there a warrant out against 
you?” 

“ That's it, dearest. But never mind, Polly. There's 
a vast difference between having a warrant out against 
you and being taken.” 

The difference was not so obvious to Mrs. Friend, who 
shrank more from the act that had caused the issue of 
the warrant than from any penalty. 

“Friend,” she said, “what have you done?” 

Friend was washing himself as she spoke, and made 
no reply. He heard well enough, however, and had to 
consider rapidly if he could keep the truth from her. 
It was no use, he concluded. Unless he were to desert 
his home altogether, she must know the danger he stood 
in. He splashed more noisily than was absolutely 
prudent, and prolonged his ablutions to put off the evil 


224 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

moment. But as soon as he had finished she faced him 
with the question again. 

“ Well, my dear/’ he said ; I dare say you may have 
guessed that Fve had a good deal to do with French 
affairs for the last few years.” 

I know,” she said, shrinking. 

‘‘ And at this crisis, you know, Polly, to have to do 
with French affairs is a very dangerous position for a 
man. In fact, if it gets known^ it’s his ruin. And, 
unfortunately, a note of mine to a friend on the other 
side fell into young Will North’s hands. He has taken 
it to the authorities, and they have issued a warrant 
against me.” 

What then was in the note ? ” she asked breathlessly. 
He hesitated. 

Well — it was a mere note — ^but it showed him my 
game right enough. If it were only that — but I’m 
sorely afraid they have got hold of other papers, 
still more compromising. Can’t you understand, 
Polly?” 

'' Do you mean — ” she asked slowly — do you mean 
that you were in league with the French Emperor — that 
you have been serving Bonaparte?” 

He nodded. You are right, my love. And if they 
can make out their case — ^as with the help of those 
papers they will be able to do — it’s like to go hard with 
me if I’m taken. But never fear, Polly ; I’m not going 
to be taken.” 

O Friend! ” she exclaimed. What does that mat- 
ter? That you should have turned against your corn- 
try — that you should be a traitor — that is the horror 
of it!” 

''Why, isn’t one country just as good as another?” 
said Friend airily. " I don’t see why I am bound to 
favor England more than France. England has never 
done anything for me that I’m aware of. This prate of 


THE EARTHS ARE STOPPED 225 

nationality seems all humbug to me, Polly. What's 
England? What's France? Mere geographical names 
— abstract ideas. There's no sense in all you good peo- 
ple running mad and killing each other for the sake of 
a name." 

‘‘ It's not that. It's loyalty to those who have bene- 
fited you — truth to those who have trusted you." 

'‘And who has benefited or trusted me, Polly? You 
dress up everything in such high-sounding romantic 
names, little woman. I’m for plain matter-of-fact. I 
can make far more money by serving the Emperor than 
the poor old lunatic on the throne here: so I give my 
loyalty to France. It seems to me it's perfectly simple 
and straightforward." 

She moaned with distress, loathing his sophistry, but 
unable to think of arguments with which to confute it. 

" Then why," she exclaimed suddenly, springing up 
and facing him fiercely^ " why didn't you tell me years 
ago you were a Frenchman in your heart? I would 
have joined you then; I would have helped you. What 
are countries to me compared with you ? " A vivid 
memory shot through her of the view of the French 
people she had received from her meeting with Fox. 
" A Frenchman may be loyal to his cause, I suppose. 
You would have been able then to have served your 
adopted country honestly." 

" But I couldn't have been of the slightest service so, 
my dear. Don't you see? It was just my position here 
as Pitt's agent " 

" Don't, don't ! " she cried. " Traitor ! Base ! Have 
you no sense of honor?" 

" Well, my love, it's of no use discussing it. Frankly 
speaking, I don't believe in honor and all those fine- 
sounding names. They're just humbug. You see my 
position. I am searched for; and if I'm taken it's 
death. I've been trying to get out of the country for 


226 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

the last week ; every cranny on the coast is being watched ; 
fortunately I got Sauvignac off. My only chance now 
is to lie hid for a time, and make my way down into 
Wales or somewhere in the West where I can take ship 
to Ireland. Or if I could get down to Devonshire or 
Cornwall I might get across to the Channel Islands 
and so to France. But for this I must have money. 
I must get a bill changed; and Fm dead tired. HI 
have a rest^ and be off early in the morning.’’ 

‘‘ Take me with you, dearest! Where you go, I must 
go. Whatever is to be your fate, I must share it.” 

You, Polly? Why, my dearest, you could not stand 
the hardships for an hour. And besides, you know^ it’s 
exactly twice as difficult for two people to disappear as 
one. 

Well. I will not add to your danger. But send for 
me, love, as soon as you can. I have no life but yours ; 
and whether it be exile, or any shame, or death itself, I 
must be at your side.” 

My Polly ! We’ll share bright days together yet, 
little woman. I’ll raise you as high as any woman in 
Europe.” 

She shook her head. Never, dearest.” 

‘‘ Keep up your heart, Polly. I’ve as many wiles as a 
fox. They little know John Friend who think he’s done 
for at the sight of a warrant.” 

It is not that, my love. It is not your danger. . . . 
But come, we’ll talk no more. You must go to sleep 
now. You need all the rest you can get.” 

Kiss me, Polly, first.” 

She bent over him; they kissed long. 

“ How is it, Polly, that it’s just for your goodness I 
love you, when I’m what I am myself? To come back 
to you, after some folks I’ve seen lately, is like coming 
back to clean cold water after drinking at ditches. I 
believe you never think a thought that isn’t worthy of 


THE EARTHS ARE STOPPED 227 

a saint; and yet you love me. I wonder whether you 
don’t despise me in your heart ? ” 

‘‘ O husband ! ” she groaned. Why do you say that ? 
You know I have never concealed what I thought of you. 
But if you have given me cause to despise you, you have 
given me such cause to love you that I can be conscious 
of nothing else. Whatever you are, my husband, what- 
ever you have done, you are the first and best and dear- 
est of men to me.” 

‘'Ah! You deserved a better husband, Polly.” 

“ There could have been none for me but you. You 
are all my life. Go to sleep, dearest.” 

He obeyed. She sat beside him, meditating on their 
last words. “ Does it not help one to understand,” 
she thought, “ the nature of the Divine love^ which can 
see our vileness so clearly, and yet love us none the less 
— nay, rather, all the more ? ” Her thoughts passed into 
prayers. Rapt in the mystic’s dreams, she watched by 
her husband till the morning. 

He woke early and was astir at once. “ Now, my 
love, I must leave you,” he said. “ I must disappear 
for the day^ and lie hidden until I can get my bills 
changed ; and then take the first chance of getting off to 
the West. If I can manage it. I’ll come back for the 
night, as long as no one suspects I’ve been here. Is 
Susan still away?” 

He had suggested in a letter to his wife that Susan 
should be sent to an old servant in the country for a 
change of air and scene; and Mrs. Friend, shrinking 
and conscious in her sight from her knowledge of the 
deceit that had been practised on her, had been glad 
to carry out the plan. 

“Yes, she is still away. I have not seen the dear 
child this fortnight.” 

“ All right. So much the better. And you’ll not let 
the maids know ? ” 


228 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

ril try and let them have no suspicion. You will 
tap at the door as you did last night ? ’’ 

‘^Yes, between twelve and one. Look out for me. 
If I’m not here by one, go to bed and don’t wait longer ; 
I shan’t be coming.” 

Very well^ dearest.” 

Look here, Polly,” he said, struck with a sudden 
thought. ‘‘ Whom have you in the house ? What serv- 
ants, I mean ? ” 

''Only Betty and Sally, my love; and the boy Jacky 
who comes in at nine to clean the boots and shoes.” 

" Well, send Sally away for a holiday to-morrow; any 
excuse will do; and give Jacky an errand — some parcel 
to take to Susan, for instance. Betty is trustworthy, 
and will ask no questions if you give her a hint. Then 
I need not hurry away ; I can stay here all day. I 
won’t be seen; and I shall be as safe here as anywhere. 
I’ve a wearing time in front of me, and may as well 
rest while I can.” 

"Won’t you stay to-day, my love? I can send Sally 
out. No one knows you are here.” 

" No, love, I must go now. I have business to do. I 
must get money; and there are papers I must burn, and 
other matters to be seen to. Good-by, little dearest. 
Keep up your heart. I’ll balk them yet, never fear.” 

" Good-by, my beloved. God in His mercy keep you 
from all evil ! ” 

They embraced, and softly went downstairs. Noise- 
lessly he unbolted the door and slipped out into the 
empty street. She replaced the bolts and chains and 
returned to her room. 

The day dragged slowly to an end. She sat and 
thought of her beliefs and ideals, outraged by her hus- 
band; of the king she prayed for with fervor every 
week; of the country she loved with a personal devo- 
tion; of the nation that stood to her for the highest 


THE EARTHS ARE STOPPED 229 

virtue, the widest freedom, the moral standard most 
acceptable to God. Everything she most revered he 
had defied. She felt — sharing his name and his life, 
as she still must wish to share them — that she was 
exiled from all she loved; accursed by her countrymen; 
excommunicated from her church. For how could she 
join in its services and utter the customary prayers, 
knowing as she now knew that her husband was schem- 
ing for its downfall? 

Mrs. Friend was not naturally narrow-minded; but 
like all women and most men of her time she had been 
trained to distrust and despise all that was foreign or 
unfamiliar. Her husband’s crime in her eyes was not 
mere treason; it was blasphemy. Yet this was not the 
worst of her burden. She could have borne this, borne 
it even with gladness^ had it been possible to think of 
his motives with respect. 

She had put away his clothes and destroyed all traces 
of his presence. No one had heard either his coming 
or his going. Night came at last. To avoid suspicion 
she went to her room at the usual hour; but sat up 
there waiting for his signal. She had sent away Sally, 
the second maid; and Betty slept at the back of the 
house. At a little past twelve came the gentle tap at 
the area door. She went downstairs and let him 
in. 

During his wanderings Friend’s beard had grown, and 
he would not shave it off as it served as a disguise. 
He brought with him now a pair of false eyebrows and 
a peruke which altered his appearance considerably. He 
tried them on before the glass, and turned round to 
her, laughing, for her approval. She turned away sick 
at heart ; the thought of a disguise overpowered her with 
shame. 

She had slept a little during the day; she could not 
sleep now. The night passed heavily away. About 


230 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

six o’clock she rose; Friend was still sleeping soundly. 
She thought of what she should say to Betty; whether 
she should try to keep her in ignorance, or whether it 
would be safer to confide to her. She expected every 
minute to hear the maid stirring; but there was no 
sound in the silent house. Betty had overslept herself. 
Mrs. Friend thought of going to rouse her, as she would 
have done under ordinary circumstances; but she could 
not bring herself to face her. She dreaded inexpres- 
sibly what lay before her — the part she might have to 
play to save her husband’s life. Friend had quite 
easily indicated to her a path of lies and deceit at which 
she shuddered; yet she knew she would take it. It 
was not the actual falsehood that appalled her; it was 
to find herself in league against the law^ against the 
authorities she revered ; supporting treason ; defending 
the wickedness she loathed. Yet all this she felt with 
horror she was about to do. 

At last, at twenty minutes to seven, Betty came down, 
muttering and grumbling to herself in a temper at being 
so late. Still Friend slept undisturbed. His wife 
waited, listening anxiously to the sounds of household 
work, till it was time to descend to breakfast. She had 
been wondering desperately how it was possible to take 
him a meal without Betty’s knowledge. It could not be 
done, she decided. The maid stood over her like a 
dragon and insisted on pouring out her tea. You’ll 
be ill again, ma’am^ and that I can see ; I’d wager my 
thimble now, you’ve not slept a wink all the blessed 
night.” 

Betty,” said Mrs. Friend. Betty. We are in 
trouble. We can trust you.” 

Betty’s honest red countenance turned white; more 
through sympathy with the terror and anguish in her 
mistress’s face than from her words. '' O ma’am, what 
is it ? ” she cried. 


THE EARTHS ARE STOPPED 231 

‘‘Your master is upstairs. No one must know he is 
here. He — he may be arrested, Betty.’’ 

“ Is it for debt, ma’am ? Oh, I would not distress 
myself for that! ” 

“ Not for debtj Betty. Worse. Much worse. Don’t 
ask me. We must not let it be known that he is at 
home. Will you take him up some breakfast?” 

As she spoke a knock sounded on the house door. 
Betty cast a glance of comprehension and reassurance 
on her mistress, and ran out of the room to answer it. 
There was a sound of voices and a tread of heavy feet. 
Men were in the hall. Betty burst into the room, fol- 
lowed by three or four men in uniform. “ It’s the 
police, ma’am ! ” she cried. “ I’ve told them master 
aren’t at home.” 

The officer in command apologized for his errand, but 
told her it was his duty to search the house. He showed 
her a warrant for the arrest of John Friend, alias a 
whole string of names. 

“ You know he is not at home? ” she said very quietly. 
It was upon her now, and she intended to lie with all 
her might ; but she felt it would be her death. She was 
astonished at the calmness of her voice. 

The man requested her keys. Feeling perfectly cold 
and as if she could not move, she handed them to him. 
She was in the act of doing so when Friend himself 
entered the room. With an ease at which half her 
mind stood incredulous she rose and greeted him like an 
acquaintance. “O Mr. Wilkinson, how do you do? 
Charmed to see you so early; only, you see, a trouble- 
some engagement is claiming me just now. I fear we 
shall not be able to practise our duet on the harpsichord 
this morning.” She believed the devil inspired the ready 
lie. 

No one was quicker in grasping a situation than 
Friend. “ I apologize, madam, for my unseasonable 


232 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

intrusion, and trust I may find you at liberty in the 
afternoon,” he replied with a bow, and was retiring 
when the sergeant placed himself in front of the door. 

I think the gentleman had better not leave the house 
till our investigation is concluded,” he said. 

‘‘Why, what's this?” said Friend; and in the same 
breath his wife exclaimed, “ Why, you would not detain 
the gentleman, surely? This is Mr. Wilkinson, sir^ a 
neighbor of ours, who is kind enough to divert my soli- 
tude in Mr. Friend's absences with practising music 
with me. You can have no right to detain him, surely? ” 

The men glanced at each other but did not move. 
“ The gentleman cannot leave the house at present,” 
repeated the sergeant, bending a suspicious eye on 
Friend. He felt the game desperate, and tried to carry 
it with bluster. “ Come^ come, you mustn't stop me ; 
my time's of value,” he said, pushing past the opposing 
constable. . . . “ Guard the door, Wilson ! ” cried the 
sergeant, and a subordinate set his back against it, 
while at the same instant, “ It is our man ! ” shouted 
another. Friend seized the man at the door by the 
shoulders and flung him to the ground, but before he 
could turn the handle three of them had thrown them- 
selves upon him and dragged him back. An instant of 
furious struggling and Friend stood clear again; before 
his assailants could arise he had drawn out and cocked 
a pistol and made for the door. He had not reached 
it when they were on him again; a flash and report 
smote his wife's senses^ and a man staggered back groan- 
ing. With a shriek she threw herself upon her hus- 
band. “Let go, Polly! You fool, let go! Don't you 
see my life's at stake?” cried Friend. As gently as 
he could — but she clung so tight he was obliged to use 
force — he cast her off, felled another of his foes with 
his left arm, and forced his way to the door. The 
wounded man shouted for help. The door was already 


THE EARTHS ARE STOPPED 233 

open when the sergeant threw himself in the way; Friend 
leveled his second pistol at his head, but again his wife 
rushed upon him and seized his arm. ‘‘ No, Friend, 
no!’' she screamed. ‘‘Not murder! O my God, not 
a murderer ! ” For an instant he struggled with her, 
but she held on, shrieking frantically. Suddenly her 
forces failed her and she dropped to the ground. He 
caught at her, his weapon falling unheeded, as the three 
constables seized him; she had swooned. More men 
were rushing in from the hall. He threw off those who 
held him and lifted his wife, carried her to a sofa, and 
laid her gently down. Then he turned to the police 
who filled the room and held out his hands for the 
handcuffs. “ Take me where you like, gentlemen,” he 
said, “ I am quite at your service now.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


AT BOULOGNE 

About the same time a short stout man in a long 
greatcoat, whose group of attendants kept respectfully 
behind him, was restlessly pacing the cliffs of Boulogne, 
and stopping every now and then to sweep the horizon to 
the west with his telescope. It was the Emperor Na- 
poleon. All was prepared for the invasion of England. 
His troops lay ready to embark at a moment’s notice. 
Not only Boulogne, but all the smaller ports in the 
neighborhood, were crammed with his soldiers. The 
flat-bottomed boats lay ready to put to sea; the last 
preparations were made; the explosion waited only for 
the match. Since August the 3d he had been at Bou- 
logne, eagerly expecting news from his fleet or from 
his English spies. As day after day passed and the 
sails of Villeneuve’s ships still did not appear, he began 
to make up his mind to stake everything on Friend’s 
scheme; to trust to darkness and favorable weather for 
eluding the English fleet and escaping the notice of their 
cruisers^ and to cross the Channel without waiting for 
the protection of his men-of-war. Time pressed; a 
storm threatened in Austria and the east of Europe; 
he longed to strike a deadly blow at England before he 
should be called away to wage a Continental war in 
Germany. 

He reviewed the immense preparations for the in- 
vasion ; he exhorted his soldiers by the title of ‘‘ The 
234 


AT BOULOGNE 


235 


Army of England ; he inflamed them with invectives 
against the treachery and arrogance of their ancient foe, 
and told them they were now about to humble the pride 
of their rival, and roll the purse-proud islanders in the 
dust. Indoors he took from its case a medal, bearing 
his own classical profile, beautiful as the young Augustus, 
on the one side, and on the reverse a figure of Hercules 
crushing the sea-monster, with the words Descente en 
Angleterre. Frappee a Londres, 1804. It is only to 
alter the date,’' he muttered. This time it shall be 
accomplished ! ” 

The tides will be favorable in three days’ time, and 
for six nights only,” he meditated. Why does not 
this rascal of a Sauvignac appear? What can delay 
him? From Wednesday until Monday, given a dark 
night and a calm sea, it could be done, fleet or no fleet, 
were the landing only secured. If Dubois has only 
carried out his plan I will risk it whether Villeneuve 
comes or not ; he cannot delay long enough to imperil our 
communications.” 

At last Sauvignac arrived^ and, according to instruc- 
tions, was taken instantly to the Emperor. He looked 
worn, haggard, and anxious. 

Well, sir? ” said Napoleon. '' What news have you? 
Is all prepared for our landing — the smugglers ready to 
fight?” 

Alas, Emperor ! ” 

What are you alassing for, man ? Speak up ! Has 
anything gone wrong?” 

‘‘ Alas, Emperor, all is wrong ! I fear — I fear — ^the 
whole scheme is ruined. I barely escaped with my life. 
Dubois — what do I know ? he may have lost his already.” 

Speak out, fool ! What has happened ? How much 
does the enemy know ? ” 

‘"Your Highness, I know nothing. All I can tell is 
what occurred in my own knowledge ; of what the enemy 


236 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

know and what has since chanced, I am profoundly 
ignorant. Forgive the little I can impart.’’ 

Ass — idiot — impart it then ; tell it without delay, 
and make your apologies afterwards. What has hap- 
pened ? ” 

It was perhaps in the beginning my own fault. But 
Dubois might have mended it if he would; I cannot 
acquit him from blame. But here I stand alone before 
you; it is on me your wrath must fall; and, Emperor, 
if my life will mend the harm ” 

Rascal, get on with your story ; do you want to drive 
me mad?” shouted Napoleon, stamping with impatience. 
‘‘Never mind your worthless life; we’ll settle that 
when I hear what you have done. Now let me have 
a plain tale. What has happened to you and to 
Dubois?” 

“ It was in the beginning my own fault,” repeated 
Sauvignac. “ Immediately on my landing at Hythe, I 
heard in a note from Dubois that the young messenger 
whose despatches from Nelson I brought you was close 
at hand on his return; and I determined to procure for 
you the answers he carried from Pitt. Unfortunately 
he woke before I had secured the packet, and I only 
escaped by leaving my coat in his hands — this coat 
containing Dubois’ note which showed him his com- 
plicity in the trick.” 

“ So he denounced the pair of you as the men who had 
robbed him ? ” 

“ I would have intercepted him and silenced him at 
all hazards; but Dubois met him first, and Dubois it 
seems has a weakness, a foolish tenderness for this 
young man. They met and fought ; and Dubois on his 
own confession spared his life. Thereupon we had to 
fly for our lives. It was with difficulty we found a 
vessel to bring me over. I would have stayed, but 
Dubois would not suffer it; there was a chance for one 


AT BOULOGNE 


237 


only, and he gave it to me. He may be unfaithful to 
the cause, Emperor, but he is a brave and generous 
man.’" 

‘‘No traitor to me is brave and generous; it is dis- 
loyalty to think it/’ exclaimed Napoleon. “ I would I 
had that rascal here; I’d give him a lesson on fidelity 
he should have no chance of forgetting. But the 
English will settle my score for me ; he is doubly traitor 
to them. He cannot escape; justice forbids he should 
escape ! I need have no care on his score.” 

“ And yet. Emperor,” said Sauvignac, hesitating, 
“ Heaven forbid I should excuse his faithlessness, but 


“ Do not dare to speak for him — you ! ” exclaimed 
Napoleon, his anger suddenly turning on the visible 
object. “You, who did the whole mischief! Could 
you not do what you were told — did you not know you 
are as unfit as an infant to manage any aflfair by your- 
self^ and have I not ordered you again and again to 
do nothing without consulting Dubois? If you had 
not betrayed yourself to the messenger, I should still 
have had him safe in my pocket. I have lost a servant 
who for mingled daring and subtlety, for power of in- 
tellect and skill in intrigue, had not his equal in Europe, 
and it is your doing and yours alone; — and the wreck 
of all my hopes for England goes with him ! ” 

“ Emperor ! ” exclaimed Sauvignac, giving the rein to 
his remorse. “What can I give to atone? My life 
is all to little, but it is all I have to offer. Take it, 
my Emperor ; I entreaty I implore ; take it, I beseech 1 ” 
He drew his sword and fell on his kness before Na- 
poleon, offering him the handle of the weapon. 

“ Dolt ! Idiot ! Do you think I’m in the mood for 
play-acting ? How am I to land in Kent now ? ” cried 
Napoleon, stamping about the room. But it was no 
play-acting to Sauvignac’s vehement Southern tempera- 


238 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

merit; he pursued the Emperor with the tears streaming 
down his face, imploring either death or forgiveness. 

I live and breathe but for you, my Emperor ; let me 
atone for my fault by my death. Kill me, kill me, my 
Emperor! and when I am dead, forgive your servant.'' 

Ah, malediction ! a hundred thousand devils seize 
you!" cried Napoleon in ungovernable irritation, kick- 
ing him over as he knelt and rushing from the room. 

Sauvignac left in solitude, slowly picked himself up, 
sorely affronted. ‘‘ He had need be a demi-god," he 
muttered, for he is no gentleman. No : he is no gentle- 
man. There are things which even the greatest loyalty 
cannot overlook. No: he has no comprehension of the 
feelings of a gentleman." 

And yet, so great was the spell that Napoleon cast over 
those who served him, that before a fortnight has passed 
Sauvignac had forgiven his kicking, or at least put it 
out of his mind, and was again the devoted loyalist who 
could think no evil of his idol. 

As soon as he had recovered his temper, Bonaparte 
went to his cabinet and again drew out his medal. 
‘‘ Frappee d Londres — f rappee d Londres/' he repeated. 

Ay ; it shall yet be done ; but now all hangs upon my 
fleet. Where are those ships? Are they not yet in 
sight on the western horizon ? " 

He ordered officers to stand at different points along 
the cliffs with telescopes, to watch and give him the 
earliest news of the arrival of the fleet. Consumed 
with impatience he galloped restlessly along the shore, 
or stood for hours at a time straining his eyes for the 
expected sails. But in vain: those white sails never 
rose above the horizon. Villeneuve had put back to 
Cadiz, and with his retreat vanished the prospect of 
the descent on London. That medal was destined to 
remain a witness of the immense audacity and frustrated 
ambitions of Napoleon, 


AT BOULOGNE 


239 


The sequel is known to every one. In the following 
September Nelson re-embarked to seek out the French 
fleet with the intention not only of conquering it but 
of destroying it; an object which he accomplished on 
the 2ist of October at Trafalgar with the loss of his 
own life. From that date England has rested free 
from the fear of invasion. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


A MARRIAGE IN HASTE 

Mrs. Friend only emerged from her swoon to fall into 
fever and delirium which lasted for some hours; but 
rest and Betty's devoted nursing restored her, and at 
the end of a week she was well enough to remove. 
The house in Harley Street was no place for her now. 
The hatred of the public was aroused against Friend; 
people gathered in the street to groan and hoot against 
the traitor, and to break the windows of his house. His 
plot was the topic of the hour; the shops were full of 
broadsides and caricatures in which he and Bonaparte 
were depicted together with every species of savage 
gibe and abuse. National spirit had been strained to the 
utmost; those were rough days, and the horror and de- 
testation universally felt found rough expression. 

As soon as she was well enough to move Mrs. Friend 
joined Susan at her old servant's house at Highbury, but 
a better retreat immediately offered itself. Her cousin 
Margaret Norman, whom she had not seen since her 
marriage, and who had since herself married a Canon of 
Westminster, found her out and insisted on taking her 
home. Letters had passed between them on the death 
of Mr. Norman; Mrs. Friend had written then to her 
cousin, who had replied affectionately, telling her of 
her marriage with Canon Bentley. But Mrs. Friend 
would not consent to the meeting she proposed. She 
had realized that her uncle's oistrust of her husband 


240 


A MARRIAGE IN HASTE 


241 

was too well founded, and that more than prejudice 
divided her from her relations. 

But now Mrs. Bentley would no longer be withstood. 
Her affection had suffered no change; she was over- 
whelmed with pity and grief and horror for her cousin's 
position. Her husband was a kind-hearted and wide- 
minded man, and encouraged her to offer his house as 
an asylum. Mrs. Bentley drove out to Highbury, 
and with gentle force carried her cousin home with 
her. 

Susan stayed. She was happy with Mrs. White and 
useful to her; and both the elder women felt that she 
ought to be spared the tragedy that had settled upon 
her aunt. Nor was she very anxious to go. She was 
awed and terrified by her aunt's suffering; and changed 
as her feelings were towards Friend^ did not feel capable 
of showing sympathy. In truth she shrank from her 
presence. 

Friend meanwhile was concentrating all his forces on 
preparing a line of defense. What evidence would be 
brought against him he did not know. He was aware 
that it was only on technical grounds that he could have 
a chance of escape. He occupied himself in studying 
the laws affecting him and in looking up all the prece- 
dents of his case. He was allowed to choose his counsel 
and to see his solicitor; he felt it was a bad sign. He 
had no doubt that the prosecution were determined on 
his death; and if there had been any weakness in their 
case against him he knew that difficulties would have 
been put in the way of his defense. But his spirits 
were as good as ever. As long as anything remained 
to be done lie was never cast down. '' Fll give them a 
good run for their money," was his thought; and the 
novelty of the present field, the difficulty he found in 
mastering the technicalities of the law, was a stimulus 
and delight to his active brain. 


242 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

But there was a reflection of another kind that occu- 
pied him a good deal. No visitors except his attorneys, 
Messrs. Edwards and Willcox, a respectable firm in 
Lincoln's Inn, were allowed him. He heard through 
this channel of his wife's removal to her cousin's, and 
was reassured on her account ; but he was anxious about 
Susan. In the event of his conviction the girl would 
be left quite unprotected. He could not bear to think of 
her position. She would indeed probably marry Norths 
but he was very doubtful of Will's power to provide 
for her. If her grandfather would acknowledge her, or 
better still, accept both her and her husband, her future 
would be assured. But this could only be if he made 
up his mind to a confession of his imposition on Lord 
Mountstephen — a confession which naturally went 
against the grain. He had also to weigh the risk to 
himself of the prejudice the story would create; for 
Lord Mountstephen occupied an eminent position on 
the bench, and it was even possible, if any chance in- 
capacitated the Lord Chief Justice Ellenborough, that 
he would preside at the trial. Still, a provision for 
Susan was the paramount consideration. ‘‘ As for my 
own chances, I mustn't admit it to myself, but no one 
in their senses would give a rotten apple for them," he 
owned to himself with a whimsical smile, — “ not that 
I am going to admit it, either. Still, it isn’t worth set- 
ting against Sukey's future. If I can get her received 
as old Mountstephen's legitimate granddaughter and 
married to Will North, I shall have done as much as 
I can ask, and can retire at ease as far as she's con- 
cerned. And Polly? Ah, it won't do to think about 
Polly. Let's get through with this first." 

He explained the circumstances to his attorney, Mr. 
Edwards. 

‘‘ The old man has shown signs of softening the last 
few months," he said. “ The fact is, his patience with 


A MARRIAGE IN HASTE 


243 - 


his precious grandson is at last wearing out. He’s begun 
to realize that he’s a bad egg, I fancy. He actually 
expressed a hope a while ago that Susan had grown up 
virtuous and well-principled! I don’t know what prin- 
ciples he exepected her to get from my family, for he 
has every reason to suppose it a nest of rogues. But he’s 
softening to her. If he learns that she’s his legitimate 
grandchild, and, above all, that she can’t imperil Evelyn’s 
succession — the property^ you see, is entailed on heirs 
male and female — I believe he’ll come round. And 
North will have a strong claim on his gratitude for 
having laid me by the heels.” He chuckled. 

‘‘You can claim no gratitude on your own account, I 
fear,” said Mr. Edwards ; “ not that it is not your due to 
some extent for having acted the part of a father to his 
grandchild all these years ; but his anger at learning how 
he has been deceived will entirely blind him to every other 
consideration.” 

“ Oh, of course, of course ; I don’t want him to feel 
gratitude to me. I want him to provide for Susan, and 
give her husband a helping hand.” 

“Is there no other way? We don’t want to manu- 
facture enemies at this juncture, Mr. Friend.” 

“As for that, he hates me like poison,” said Friend; 
“ but he’s afraid of me. I have a hold over him, it’s 
true; but how does that serve me now? If he were 
to be the presiding judge at my trial, and if 1 could 
reckon on his fear of my splitting about his grandson. 
I’d tighten my grip; but I can’t count on it; he’d feel 
that my story would be discounted by my position. And 
then he isn’t likely to be my judge. I shall have Lord 
Ellenborough, I presume.” 

“I presume so. But may not a prejudice get about? 
Will not the story leak out ? ” 

“ Perhaps; but what will it signify? A prejudice the 
more or less will not make the slightest difference to me. 


244 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

It’s so dire an offense to the good folks of England 
to be in league with Boney that not all the crimes in the 
Newgate Calendar could blacken a man further after 
that. If I could make a powerful friend it would be 
another thing; but IVe no chance of that. The question 
is, shall I retain my hold of Lord Mountstephen, which 
can do me no further good now — and may perhaps do me 
harm; for the more he fears me the more sure he is to 
want to see me safely hanged and out of his way. Now 
if I tell, at any rate he’ll know he has nothing to fear 
me for. And if I sacrifice my hold, I may secure his 
protection to my girl. IVe always thought of her as 
mine, Mr. Edwards. She’s been a daughter to me these 
last twelve years.” 

‘‘ Can’t you let him know the truth without exposing 
yourself? Could you put Mr. North, for instance, in the 
way of finding the documents, so that he should think it 
was his own discovery ? ” 

Ha ! a bright idea, Mr. Edwards. But ’twould make 
little difference. However we put it, we can’t make 
my part look a pretty one. And somehow I seem to have 
a hankering that North should know I’ve done him this 
service. He has plenty of reason to think ill of me ; and 
I should like him to feel, when all’s over between us, that 
there’s something he has to thank me for.” 

‘‘ Well, Mr. Friend, you will do as you think best. 
What part do you want me to play in the business ? ” 

“ Oh, only to get the documents and hand them to my 
wife. She will do all the rset. A wedding is always a 
woman’s affair. I shan’t be allowed to write, of course ; 
but you can take a message to her. Tell her I want them 
to be married at once ; that’s necessary, for Lord Mount- 
stephen might object to North as a son-in-law; and that 
the papers are my wedding gift to Susan, to be handed 
to her husband after the ceremony. Tell her that North 
is to take them to his grandfather-in-law as soon as they 


A MARRIAGE IN HASTE 


245 


are married, and present his bride to her family. We’ll 
leave him to make the best story he can out out of it ; the 
more he blackens my character the better it’ll be for 
himself. But it won’t do to tell him so; it might rouse 
some queer feelings ; I want him to keep up his anger for 
the present. I’ll wager the old man receives them with 
open arms.” 

Mrs. Friend heard the intelligence of her husband’s 
wishes with regard to Susan with unspeakable thankful- 
ness. It relieved her from anxiety as to the girl’s future, 
which^ however, she felt far less than her husband, as 
she had greater confidence in Will’s power to support 
her ; and above all, she was thankful even to tears 
that Friend had turned in his course of double-deal- 
ing and was willing to reveal the truth. It gave her 
new hopes for him; at last, she thought, his heart was 
softened. 

She sent for Will, and unfolded the story to him. It 
was not an easy or pleasant task, but was rendered per- 
haps somewhat less difficult by the fact that he was 
already aware of her husband’s treachery, and the rev- 
elation of his falsehood came with no overwhelming 
shock. But that Friend should after all wish him to 
marry Susan and should do all in his power to facilitate 
the wedding, was an almost incredible surprise to him. 
How Friend could wish it in their present relations he 
could not imagine; and he listened to Mrs. Friend with 
a gloomy awkwardness for which the word '' sulky ” 
seems the most appropriate description. 

On leaving the scene of his defeat he had gone straight 
to the authorities at Hythe, saw the warrant issued for 
the arrest of Friend and Sauvignac, and had guided the 
magistrates to Friend’s lodging, where his papers were 
seized and found to include much incriminating matter. 
Will’s penetration and promptitude received great 
applause, and he returned to London pluming himself 


246 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

on his achievement, and swelling with righteous indigna- 
tion and disdain against Friend. His first thought then 
was of Susan; but he could not under the changed cir- 
cumstances call at her aunt’s house and ask to see her; 
and at the same time it was necessary to meet ; he could 
never explain satisfactorily in writing all that had oc- 
curred. But Susan was no longer in Harley Street; his 
letter there was forwarded to her ; and though it reached 
her in due course for those days of slow and uncertain 
posts, he had not received any answer and did not know 
she was absent from home. It was a relief to him to 
hear she was away, and that her silence did not neces- 
sarily imply a change of feeling towards him. He could 
not but accept the proposal now made to him; it was 
his warmest desire to take Susan out of the hands of 
her dangerous protector; but he was inclined to resent 
the attitude of obligation in which he was placed. It 
was awkward also to be obliged to meet Mrs. Friend. 
From her he had received nothing but kindness and 
affection; and yet he stood before her like an enemy, 
conscious that he had brought ruin and misery incurable 
on her life. To his feelings it only intensified the un- 
pleasantness of his position that she gave no hint of 
reproach, that her grief was restrained and dignified, 
and she showed him all her customary gentle kindness. 
He felt like a villain before her; and chafed at the un- 
reasonable necessity. 

So it was not quite with the unclouded joyfulness of a 
bridegroom that he rode down to Highbury to prosecute 
his wooing. He found Susan, in consequence of his 
letter, expecting him ; she was surprised to learn that he 
had not yet received her reply. She was lovelier than 
ever to his eyes, and welcomed him with a gladness, a 
hardly restrained eagerness and tenderness, that he had 
never dared to hope. In her loneliness, and shaken by 
the loss of her oldest friends, her heart had turned to 


A MARRIAGE IN HASTE 


247 

him with redoubled longing; she looked to him now as 
her only protector, her only hope. 

They had much to say about Friend, just as on that 
first evening before the journey down to Kent; but of 
how different a nature now ! The reassurance, however, 
of the legitimacy of her birth was not news to Susan; 
Mrs. Friend had relieved her mind of that weight before 
leaving her at Highbury. That he should have invented 
so cruel a calumny was now perhaps Susan’s greatest 
quarrel with her guardian. She had gradually readjusted 
her ideas of him and learnt to look on his treachery to 
his country as an integral part of his character; but 
that he had causelessly slandered her was an injury she 
saw not how to forgive. Through Will’s explanation she 
understood the mystery now; it was no private malice 
towards herself, but a necessary thread of the web of 
intrigue in which he lived. She found her thoughts 
softening to him. He was anxious to secure her future 
happiness and had consented to her marriage with Will, 
and she could not but be grateful. Will, however, did 
not share her kinder thoughts. Still smarting under the 
sense of deception, he could only feel rage and indigna- 
tion at the thought of his crooked paths; and that he 
could not shake off a feeling of obligation was an addi- 
tional injury. 

But he had to gain Susan’s consent to an immediate 
marriage; and with all her joy at recovering him she 
shrank from the idea. After long discussion, in which 
she owned the force of his arguments but still replied 
she could not bring herself to it, she begged him to let 
the matter rest, to give her time to think of it. Will had 
to return to London that evening, and his duties at his 
office might prevent his coming down again till the fol- 
lowing Saturday; so he implored her, if he were silent 
for the present, to give him an answer before he left. 
It was a short space in which to decide such a question^ 


248 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

but it was all that could be granted. Mrs. White, who 
had been Susan’s nurse when she was a little girl, gave 
them tea, and then they went out for a walk about the 
Highbury and Islington fields. They did not talk except 
to exchange a word now and then. Will could speak 
of no other subject than that on which he had promised 
to be silent ; and Susan was occupied in trying to arrive 
at her decision. If only the need were not quite so 
pressing! She felt an absolute trust in her lover, the 
fullest love and affection for him; she had no doubt that 
it was he and no other she would choose from all the 
world as her husband; but as yet she had seen so little 
of him. They had had but one meeting before this as 
acknowledged and permitted lovers. Even as a lover she 
knew little of him — and what she did know had not been 
of an altogether reassuring nature, if she would have 
allowed herself to recall it; only in the joy of reunion 
she would not admit any thought not entirely in his 
favor. It was not that she doubted him; only that she 
felt time necessary to ripen her feelings before she was 
ready to take so solemn a step. If there were no new 
element in marriage — if she could indissolubly unite her- 
self to him and yet keep him on the footing of a wooer — 
then it might be possible. And after all, was it asking 
too much of him? Had he a right to expect, after so 
shorty so broken a courtship, that the accident of their 
circumstances should sO' change her feminine nature 
and deprive her of her woman’s privileges? Would he 
be in any the worse position if, while holding the cer- 
tainty of possession, he was required to wait for its 
exercise until in the usual course he might have ex- 
pected her consent? Susan thought not. It seemed to 
her that by making such a stipulation she could satisfy 
her lover and her friends and secure herself from future 
danger without doing violence to her own nature. Be- 
come his wife in a week’s time she could not; but she 


A MARRIAGE IN HASTE 


249 


decided that if he would agree to a mere legal and formal 
marriage until such time as sfhe felt herself able to con- 
sent to more, she could give him her hand at the altar 
in however short a space with the fullest confidence in 
his honor and tenderness. 

Will agreed to her decision in a sort of agony of 
mingled impatience and ecstasy at the subtleties of female 
delicacy; and rode back to town to tell Mrs. Friend of 
her consent. Within a week the ceremony had taken 
place; and Will North and Susan were legally man 
and wife. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


SUSAN IS RESTORED TO HER FAMILY 

Lord Mountstephen was at his country seat of 
Langley Regis, near Melton Mowbray in Leicestershire; 
and thither the young couple set off in a postchaise after 
the simple wedding breakfast. Mr. Edwards the attor- 
ney was present at the ceremony, and at its conclusion 
handed Will the papers relating to his wife’s birth which 
he was to present to her grandfather. The journey was 
long, and to spare Susan fatigue they spent two nights 
on the way. On the third morning they arrived, and 
Susan was left at the village inn while her husband went 
to seek an interview with her important relative. 

He was shown into the library, a long splendid room, 
with columns supporting the gilded ceiling, and books 
in tall cupboards behind glass doors. He waited for 
some time alone; at last a footman appeared and told 
him to follow. He was taken into a less magnificent 
but more comfortable apartment, where Lord Mount- 
stephen sat in an armchair. He was a stately old man 
with a high intellectual brow and keen eyes, and a lofty 
distant manner. 

'‘Mr. North? You have business with me, sir?” he 
said in response to Will’s bow. 

" I have important business, my lord, of a private 
nature.” 

" Be good enough to unfold it with all convenient 
brevity. Be seated, sir.” 


250 


SUSAN IS RESTORED 


251 


Will sat down. I have had the infinite happiness, 
my lord,'' he began, of becoming the husband of your 
granddaughter. Miss Susan Marny." 

Lord Mountstephen drew his brows together. I have 
no granddaughter," he said with lofty coldness. 

‘‘ Pardon me, my lord. I refer to the daughter of 
your late son, the Honorable Mr. Chetwynd Armour, 
and Mile. Marny, whom he married in France.' 

"‘There was no marriage^ sir. You are misinformed. 
Any one, if any one there is, who claims such identity 
is an impostor." 

“ It is in order to clear up the circumstances of my 
wife's birth that I have called on you, my lord," said 
Will. “ My wife was brought up, as you are aware, by 
Mr. Friend — the notorious Friend now awaiting his trial 
for treasonable correspondence with France." 

“And what of that, Mr. North? What is he to me? 
As to the lady, I refuse to recognize her existence. You 
are under a complete misapprehension ; and I must in- 
form you that your application to me was a mistaken 
one." He was rising from his seat when Will inter- 
rupted him. 

“ Hear, me, my lord. It is you who are under a mis- 
apprehension. New facts have just come to light which 
I have to communicate to your lordship." 

“ I cannot hear you, sir," said Lord Mountstephen 
hastily. “ There can be no facts in which I have an 
interest. I must ask you to leave me." 

“ Not until you have seen the documents I bring, 
my lord," said Will firmly. 

Lord Mountstephen started. “ Documents ? " he 
asked. “ What documents ? " 

“ Certified copies of the acts of the marriage and 
birth," replied Will. 

“ Of the originals which were destroyed in the Revo- 
lution ? " 


252 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Just so, my lord. Here they are."' 

Lord Mountstephen stretched out a trembling hand 
and Will handed him the packet. He opened it, and then 
paused, casting a suspicious glance at the young man. 

‘‘ Read them, my lord ! urged Will. Again he shot 
a piercing look at North, and then turned his eyes on 
the papers, his hand shaking so that he could with 
difficulty read them. Will watched his glance traveling 
backwards and forwards, till suddenly he started and 
cried out in a strained voice, What's this ? What's 
this date? 1788?" 

‘‘ That was the date of the marriage with Mile. Marny," 
replied Will quietly. 

Good God ! . . . And the witness's evidence ? The 
sworn declaration of the witness to the marriage in 
1781 ? " 

An imposture, I presume," said Will. “ He has con- 
fessed as much. The marriage, as you see, did not take 
place till 1788." 

Lord Mountstephen leant back in his chair, deadly 
pale. ‘‘ All these years, — " he muttered, ‘‘ — all these 
years! As surely as there's a God in Heaven, he shall 
hang! " 

‘‘ And never did man deserve it better," agreed Will 
below his breath. 

There was a long pause. At length Will broke it. 
‘‘If your lordship will give me permission, I should like 
to have the honor of presenting my wife to you," he 
said. 

Lord Mountstephen turned and regarded him loftily. 

“ And who are you, sir? Give some account of your- 
self — of your acquaintanceship with this villain." 

“ I became acquainted with him three months ago," 
replied Will. “ I certainly am the last man to wish to 
offer any excuse for him; he deceived me in the most 


SUSAN IS RESTORED 


253 


cold-blooded and cruel manner. All I can say is that 
he made me his complete dupe. But he introduced me 
to his family — to Miss Marny — and I was received by 
them with the greatest kindness. I must beg you, my 
lord, to dissociate them from any idea of participation 
in or knowledge of that man's crimes. I became attached 
to Miss Marny; and he, for reasons of his own which 
I do not profess to understand, approved of my attach- 
ment. I was permitted to think I had won her affec- 
tions ; and, I do not know why, after our rupture, after his 
exposure, he still desired our marriage and furnished me 
with the means of accomplishing it. It may have been 
a wish to secure his ward's happiness — though I can 
scarcely credit him with so respectable a motive. At 
any rate, he proposed to confide to me on my marriage 
the documents in his possession proving the legitimacy 
of her birth ; and for her sake as well as my own, eager 
as I was to rescue her from his hands, you may suppose 
I did not hesitate to accept his proposals." 

Lord Mountstephen listened in silence. What is 
your family ? " he asked at length. “ WhO' were your 
parents ? What is your occupation ? " 

‘‘ I am of no family," said Will shortly. '' I can claim 
no father. I am illegitimate. Before you blame me 
for marrying your granddaughter, remember that it was 
my highest hope to do so when I knew nothing of her 
family; when she appeared to be as friendless and as 
nameless as myself. And you should remember^ too, 
that you yourself did all that was in your power to cast 
upon her the same stigma that rests upon me." 

Lord Mountstephen was silent for an instant. Well, 
it is done now and cannot be undone. What is your 
occupation, young man? Or have you private means 
on which to support your wife?" 

“ I have no private means. I have supported myself 
since my eighteenth year, and do not doubt that I shall 


254 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

be able to support my wife likewise. Lately I have 
been employed in the Admiralty Office.” 

How did you obtain your appointment ? ” 

“ It was procured for me by Mr. Thomas Raby, mem- 
ber for Ashford, at the instance, I believe, of Mr. Friend. 
Mr. Friend showed me at that time, I must admit, what 
I took to be the greatest kindness. I had no suspicion 
of his true character till a chance put into my hands 
unmistakable evidence of his treason.” 

‘‘ Unmistakable evidence ! Were you then concerned 
in his exposure and arrest?” 

‘‘ I may say I caused both,” said Will. It was at my 
instance that the warrant for his arrest was issued, and I 
believe mine will be the principal evidence against him 
at his trial.” 

Lord Mountstephen’s stern expression relaxed. You 
may congratulate yourself then on one good deed at 
least, young man,” he said. Ay, and live as long as 
you may and fill your life as full of deserving actions 
as you can, you are never likely to do a better than 
causing the arrest and death of that villain.” 

Will was modestly silent; yet there was a faint con- 
sciousness somewhere in his mind that the praise was 
not entirely pleasant to him. 

He resumed on the subject he was most interested in. 

I should be obliged if you would give me an answer 
to my request, my lord. May I have the honor of pre- 
senting my wife to you?” 

A moment, young man. Do not go too fast. If you 
have married my granddaughter, I cannot undo it; but 
I can still refuse to acknowledge her. But she seems 
to be the legitimate daughter of my ill-fated son; and 
since her claims cannot interfere with the rights of my 
heir, I should wish to see her, and if I am satisfied with 
her, to own the relationship. But if there’s a pair of 
you, I must be satisfied that you are worthy of my 


SUSAN IS RESTORED 


255 


family as well as she. From what you tell me, you have 
done the State an excellent service in the exposure of 
this scoundrel ; and I am willing to acknowledge I have 
reason myself to feel in your debt for so frankly placing 
in my hands those papers. But you will consider, no 
doubt^ it is discharged if I receive you as my grand- 
daughter’s husband.” 

“ I make no claim on your lordship,” said Will. “ I 
claim your recognition for my wife as her right; that is 
my whole object.” 

But if I acknowledge her I must acknowledge you 
as well, if you are in reality her husband.” 

'' I am in reality her husband.” 

'' When and where did the ceremony take place ? ” 

'' At St. Michael’s, a chapel of ease at Islington, near 
London, on the 19th instant. We were married by the 
Rev. Mr. Hudson, a minor canon of Westminster Cathe- 
dral. Mr. Edwards, an attorney of reputation, was a 
witness. Here is the certificate.” 

Lord Mountstephen put it in his pocket. 

'' Well, Mr. North, I hope you will not discredit your 
choice,” he said. You seem to be a well-intentioned 
young man; and under the unfortunate circumstances I 
cannot fairly raise objections to you as a husband for 
my granddaughter on the score of your birth. If you 
give me reason to be satisfied with your conduct, I shall 
be willing to use my interest for your advance; but 
remember, it depends entirely on your behavior and on 
your wife’s. You may introduce her to me at one o’clock 
to-morrow.” 

The momentous interview passed off with the greatest 
success. From the first moment the impression that 
Susan made on her grandfather was entirely favorable. 
He saw in her the exact image of her father; she was 
far more like him than was her step-brother Evelyn ; and 


256 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

softened thoughts and memories rushed over the old man 
in a flood at the sight of her, and woke long- forgotten 
regrets and tenderness. Her beauty and her gentle 
modest self-possession served her; he perceived that she 
was not only in every way worthy of his name and 
family^ but that she would bring a new softness and joy 
into his life; she would give him a fresh object for hopes 
and ambition and affection. Before they left the house 
he was pressing them to take up their residence beneath 
his roof, an invitation which they could not decline. 

And now began a new existence, both for Susan and 
her husband. Every day increased Lord Mountstephen’s 
fondness for his granddaughter. He made her large 
presents of money, loaded her with jewels, introduced 
her and Will to all the magnates of the county, and cele- 
brated their arrival with visits, dinners, and balls. The 
young couple found themselves a center of interest to 
the neighborhood. Susan's beauty and her romantic 
restoration to her family, and Will's good looks and the 
renown he had acquired through the arrest of Friend, 
gave them luster on their own account besides the 
importance of their relationship to the eminent Lord 
Mountstephen. It must be admitted that Will's head 
was a little turned by flattery and success. For the first 
time in his life he found himself popular and courted and 
overflowing with money. People came and congratu- 
lated him on his detection of the traitor Friend, and 
praised him for his success in procuring his arrest; and 
Will, after in vain assuring them that he had exercised 
no remarkable penetration, could have done nothing 
else, and had had nothing to do with the actual capture, 
began to give up the attempt to disclaim their admira- 
tion, and ended by accepting it and taking himself for 
a mighty fine fellow. The atmosphere of popularity, too, 
was entirely novel to him and somewhat relaxing. No 
longer without a family or name, secure of himself and 


SUSAN IS RESTORED 


257 


of his position, he moved about freely and lost his 
diffidence, gave the rein to the natural sociability and 
friendliness of his disposition, and became the hail- 
fellow-well-met of all the young gentry and nobility of 
the neighborhood. To some it is true he was aware 
at the bottom of his heart there was a repugnance; 
but it was amazing how pleasant all made themselves 
to him, even those whom he knew in his old life he would 
have hated and despised. He got into difficulties once 
or twice through his too great openness of speech. At 
first, abandoning himself to the pleasant sense of security 
and -good-fellowship, he certainly talked too freely; but 
he quickly perceived the results of his indiscretion, 
especially when he confessed the closeness of his con- 
nection with Friend, and began to recognize it was some- 
times necessary to be on one's guard among friends as 
well as among foes. But notwithstanding these trifling 
rubs he was exceedingly happy. He was married to 
Susan, he had achieved what he felt to be a secure and 
brilliant position, his days were filled with pleasures, 
and he looked forward to a future of still higher suc- 
cesses and of unclouded felicity. 

But Susan was by no means equally content; and the 
perception that she was not was the only cloud on Will's 
happiness; and as he found himself unable to cheer her 
he was inclined to blame her for her want of enjoyment. 
She missed her home and her aunt; she bitterly missed 
the simplicity of her old life. Her social triumphs were 
all very well, and she would have enjoyed them thor- 
oughly if she could have shared them and talked them 
over with Will; but a cloud had come between her and 
her husband which destroyed all her power of finding 
pleasure in other things. She was home-sick; she was 
lonely; and she found Will out of touch with her. 
Carried away by elation and excitement, he did not 
perceive the moral crisis through which she was passing ; 


258 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

and her failure to accept their good fortune as easily 
as he did himself insensibly vexed him. After all, he 
was only a boy of twenty-one; it was very natural that 
for a fortnight — it was no longer — he should give him- 
self up to enjoyment without reflection; but it was a 
critical fortnight for their married happiness. He was 
not unkind to her; on the contrary, he exerted himself 
to assure her of his love and adoration; but she could 
not respond. She was out of tune. The manners of 
the men and even of some of the women she now met 
revolted her. In contrast with them Friend's memory 
shone; at least his private life was clean. Lord Mount- 
stephen's acquaintances might be models of patriotism 
and public virtue, but in other respects she judged them, 
as revealed partly by gossip and a little by actual 
glimpses, not worthy to be compared with him. In truth 
Mrs. Friend's household had been a poor preparation 
for fashionable life. She began to realize now how 
much she had learnt to depend on her aunt's strict 
standard and exalted atmosphere. She had recognized 
the constraint they inflicted, but not the strength she 
had received from them. Now that she had lost them 
she felt all her moral supports were withdrawn, and 
that at the crisis when she most needed them. If she 
turned to her husband for help, she found him occupied 
with race-meetings, dinners and festivities, full of ani- 
mosity and unseeing scorn towards Friend, and all his 
higher qualities lost in self-satisfaction and vain-glory. 

A grievous shock was given her one night after Lord 
Mountstephen's great dinner in their honor. A pro- 
fusion of wines and deep drinking were still counted a 
necessary part of hospitality on a great scale; every one 
wished to take wine with Lord Mountstephen's new 
relative, and it was impossible to refuse without rude- 
ness. Will therefore could not manage to avoid drink- 
ing a good deal more than was good for him ; and indeed 


SUSAN IS RESTORED 


259 


the task would have taxed an experienced and tactful 
man of the world. Considering the prevalence of drunk- 
enness at the time and under the circumstances, he might 
perhaps have been pardoned ; but Susan had no mercy or 
tolerance when she discovered what was the matter 
with him; she was filled with disgust and anger, and 
the ideal she still strove to cherish fell in fragments at 
her feet. Anything else she felt she might have for- 
given — she had already had something to forgive — but 
the thought of his foolish, meaningless laughter and 
flushed idiotic face was too revolting. He had by his 
own act given her a new image of himself in place of 
her old worshipped one, an image perhaps even more 
unjust in its travesty of his true self than the former 
had been in the opposite direction ; and she had no more 
power to rid herself of the new than of the old. Her 
adoration was succeeded by bitter contempt. When he 
came to his senses with an aching head an a general 
sense of degradation, he was indeed very penient, and 
asked her pardon most contritely; but her disillusion- 
ment was too recent for immediate forgiveness; and 
unfortunately Will in his discomfort went for counsel 
to one of his new friends, a young man of open, friendly 
temper but of no depth or refinement of feeling, who 
laughed at his remorse and gave him a little sensible 
man-of-the-worldly discourse on the subordination of 
wives and the attitude to be exacted from them towards 
manly freedoms and peccadillos. Will’s looseness of 
tongue, when it betrayed him into discussing the most 
delicate relations of marriage with a man of this stamp, 
did him harm which he had bitterly to repent. 

Then she had to undergo the unpleasant experience of 
an introduction to her step-brother. He happily had 
lost all his effrontery, and was as anxious to avoid her as 
she could be to avoid him; so the occasion passed off 
better than she feared. He had done his best to in- 


26 o the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

fluence his grandfather against the newcomers, express- 
ing unmeasured disgust on hearing that young North, 
a low prize-ring bully, mere scum of the town as he de- 
scribed him, should be claiming the position of his 
brother-in-law. But Lord Mountstephen having once 
decided to accept Will, refused to change his course. 

It is too late to disown him now,’’ he said ; he is 
your sister’s husband, and as such we must accept him. 
He is a gentleman; and the less we say about his past 
the better.” On which Mr. Armour withdrew to town. 
He was not going, he declared, to allow himself to 
appear on equal terms with such a fellow. 

But a more trying element of Susan’s position was her 
relation to Friend. His approaching trial was the theme 
of conversation everywhere ; his name was the signal 
for universal execration ; and the more she heard him 
vilified, the more her heart softened towards him. Now 
that he was found out and about to pay the penalty 
of his misdeeds, Susan began to lose the horror with 
which they had inspired her. She remembered his un- 
failing consideration, his tenderness to her; the insight 
and sympathy on which she had relied, and never in 
vain ; and gradually she forgave his crimes. But to the 
world around her he was a monster, something scarcely 
human in baseness. Men were even less careful in those 
days than they are now of how they pronounced on a 
case still awaiting trial, and Friend was tried and con- 
demned in every print and every tavern and in every 
man’s daily talk. Not a doubt was felt of his guilt or 
of the fate that awaited him. The whole nation was hot 
for his death. It seemed to Susan that the people around 
her were like bloodhounds on a trail, or a pack of 
wolves clamoring for their prey. And Will appeared 
actually to like to talk about him. One evening after 
she had been listening to an eager exposition of the 
danger the country had run and the necessity of stamping 


SUSAN IS RESTORED 


261 


out treason with the sternest measures, she could not 
refrain from reproaching her husband for his share in 
the conversation. You at least ought surely to be 
silent,’" she said ; are you not to be a chief witness at 
his trial ? ” 

“ Yes, certainly; but why should I be silent on account 
of that? Doesn’t that place me in the best position for 
knowing his guilt ? ” 

“ Keep your view of his guilt then till it is called for in 
the court of justice,” said Susan; '‘surely it is not 
justice nor law either to pronounce on him before he is 
tried. And you, too, you of all men, ought not to speak 
against him unnecessarily.” 

" Why so, Susan ? Didn’t he deceive me shamefully ? 
Hasn’t he wronged me as much as a man can do ? ” 

“ I don’t deny he deceived you. But has he been no 
friend to you? What would you be now if it had not 
been for him? Still a prizefighter in Lord Combleigh’s 
train, I suppose. And if you say he advanced you for 
his own purposes, it was hardly for his own advantage 
that he was so kind to you, so genial, so warm a friend. 
And shall I remind you that you would hardly be 
living here and married to me if it had not been for 
him?” 

“ How can we tell what his motive was ? He is a bad 
man, Susan; and I can’t believe that he has done any- 
thing for us for our sakes and without a view to his own 
interest.” 

" You don’t know him — you don’t understand him. 
Will. He is a bad man ; I can’t deny it, in some respects ; 
but not in all. Contrast him with some of the people 
you see here; think of him at home; think of him with 
my aunt; did you ever know a more devoted husband, 
a better master, a more indulgent guardian? Oh, when 
I look at the men about me and think of him, I am ready 
to call him a saint ! Let him be a traitor to his king and 


262 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

his country, loyalty is not the only virtue. His wife at 
least has no cause to reproach him.” 

Will understood that she implied she could not say as 
much for him ; and his conscience smote him. Susan,” 
he said, '' You know — ^you know I am very sorry.” 

Oh, of what use is your sorrow ? ” cried Susan im- 
ptiently. ,She turned coldly away from him. He 
discouraged by many previous repulses, left the room. 
She threw herself on a couch and burst into a passion of 
tears. She felt herself the forlornest, most desolate 
creature on the face of the earth. 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE TRIAL — FIRST DAY 

This clouded honeymoon, however, if painful, was 
soon over. By the end of the month their return to 
London was fixed; Lord Ellenborough’s gout still con- 
fined him to his room, and it was known that Lord 
Mountstephen would preside at the trial. He had not a 
scruple in undertaking the task. Nicety of conscience 
in such matters appears to be a modern growth. Lord 
Mountstephen's view was that the more he knew of 
Friend's villainy the more justified he was in hanging 
him. He meant to give him a fair trial ; but he had no 
idea that fairness involved a real presumption of his 
innocence. 

Susan was very anxious to witness the trial. No ac- 
count would satisfy her; it was too terribly engrossing 
to her. Her grandfather at last consented that she should 
be present; and on the 3rd of September they went up 
to town. A Special Commission had been issued, as the 
case was considered of the gravest importance ; and 
proceedings began on the 4th. The trial, however, was 
not reached till September nth, the usual preliminaries 
taking up the interval. 

Susan looked about her at the close-packed court, the 
judges in their scarlet and ermine on the bench, and the 
tightly-tied bunches of sweet-smelling herbs lying in 
front of them. She was herself provided with a nose- 
gay of rosemary and southernwood to smell at when 
the air of the court became oppressive. At present, at 
263 


264 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

nine o’clock in the morning, no foul odors were per- 
ceptible, thoug'h the atmosphere was close and stagnant. 
She looked about for faces she knew. She saw Dr. 
Bentley in a prominent place; and by-and-by she made 
out Betty’s familiar features in the gallery. Mrs. Friend, 
of course, would not be there. 

The court hummed and buzzed like a beehive. Pres- 
ently the sounds deepened ; an angry murmur mixed with 
hisses rose on the ear. The prisoner was being brought 
in. The sounds swelled to a roar of fury; ushers cried 
for silence; the judges looked round sternly. With great 
reluctance the audience stilled its clamor. Friend was 
placed at the bar. Susan’s heart leaped. He looked 
absolutely the same; his very self, untouched with any 
appearance of guilt or fear or suffering. How familiar, 
how reassuring, his countenance was to her! A pang 
of home-sickness went through her at the sight. She 
could hardly keep herself from weeping, not so much 
on account of his situation as for the loss of all he 
represented to her, her home and her peaceful girlhood 
spent in happy dreams. She had awakened since to 
realities that were stern indeed. She wondered if he 
saw her. He looked round the court, and she thought 
his glance included her, but it passed on again as if she 
were a stranger. 

Then began the tedious business of calling over the 
jury. Friend had warned his counsel to be on the alert 
in challenging the jurors. Fie did not believe it would 
signify anything in the end what particular dozen of 

good men and true ” considered his case ; but it was his 
policy to throw every possible difficulty in the prosecu- 
tion’s way, and to lengthen out the proceedings by every 
possible device. So name after name, to the number 
of seventy-five, was brought forward and challenged on 
technical or other grounds. The most ingenious and 
far-fetched objections were raised, generally to be over- 


THE TRIAL-FIRST DAY 265 

ruled by the Court, but not until a lengthy wrangle had 
taken place. After nearly three hours of this, the judge 
lost patience, swept aside the counsel’s plea^ '' My lord, 
I am fighting for my client’s life,” and the twelve were 
duly sworn in. 

Then followed the indictment, beginning with the usual 
stately flourishes. ‘'The jurors for our lord the king 
upon their oath present that John Friend, late of Harley 
Street in the county of Middlesex, being a subject of 
our said lord the now king, not having the fear of God 
in his heart nor weighing the duty of his allegiance^ but 
being moved and seduced by the instigation of the devil 
as a false traitor against our said lord the now king, 
his supreme, true, lawful and undoubted lord ; — the cor- 
dial love and true and due obedience which every true 
and dutiful subject of our sovereign lord the king towards 
him our said lord the king should bear, wholly with- 
drawing; and contriving and intending the peace and 
common tranquillity of this kingdom to disquiet, molest, 
and disturb — — ” It went on for a long time, and Susan 
could not follow it through its technicalities. The pris- 
oner pleaded “ Not Guilty.” Then the Attorney-General 
rose to open the prosecution. The papers in cipher that 
Will had seized had been interpreted, and together with 
the French correspondence disclosed a sufficiently damn- 
ing story. But more than the recent plot had come 
to light through the late researches. The whole story 
of his political intrigues was laid bare. 

“ My lords and gentlemen of the jury,” said Mr. At- 
torney-General (the unfortunate Spencer Perceval, who 
seven years later met his death in the lobby of the House 
of Commons by the shot of a madman with a grievance), 
“ the accused appears to be one of those monsters of 
depravity whose crimes arouse a feeling of incredulity 
in the sane and honest breast of an ordinary Englishman ; 
so difficult is it to our nation to credit the existence of 


266 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

systematic treachery and studied and mercenary turpi- 
tude. The crime of which the prisoner is accused might 
well appear to you past credence if it were a recent or 
a solitary growth; but I shall show you that this man 
has spent the best years of his life in plots and treason, 
that he has with callousness of conscience past belief 
trafficked in the betrayal of confidence, and that no crime 
against his country has been too appalling, no treachery 
too base for him, if only he could obtain the vile re- 
wards of cupidity. 

Holding a confidential though subordinate post as 
a clerk in the Foreign Office, he had opportunities of 
acquiring a thorough knowledge of our relations with 
foreign countries ; and it seems to have occurred to him 
early in his career that more money was to be made (such 
was the base motive w'hich appears to have guided him 
throughout) by the betrayal of his country’s secrets to 
her enemies, than by honorably and faithfully serving 
her in his humble position. Being a man of exceptional 
ability he was much employed in delicate and secret 
negotiations, which it now appears he never failed to 
turn to his own vile purposes. In 1796 he was sent to 
Ireland to report on the unhappy disturbances there, and 
it is evident through the recent discoveries that he was 
in communication with the French General Hoche, who 
at that very time effected a landing on the coast, and 
was divulging the plans of the Government to him while 
he pretended to be supplying his legitimate employers 
with information about the invaders. Two years later 
he appears to have been in the practice of selling in- 
formation from our Government to the rebel Wolfe 
Tone and the French Government, whilst nominally serv- 
ing his country by reporting trivialities about the rebels’ 
movements. In short, it is not too much to say that in 
every disturbance which has troubled the peace and 
prosperity of our country for the last ten years, the 


THE TRIAL— FIRST DAY 267 

prisoner at the bar has been intimately concerned. More 
definite still is the information we have of his doings in 
1803, when he was employed as an agent by those mis- 
taken enthusiasts who sought to relieve their country 
of her dreaded enemy by the dagger of the assassin. 
Let me not be thought to impute to our Government a 
knowledge of the indefensible schemes of the exiled 
Royalists; yet regretfully I must admit that there were 
Englishmen ready to join in the counsels of those who 
shrank not from murder; and the plot of Georges 
Cadoudal against Bonaparte was supported not only 
by English gold but by the advice and influence of mis- 
taken Englishmen. Of these the prisoner was the agent. 
But while blaming the unbalanced judgment of those who 
could soil the sacred cause of their country by participa- 
tion in crime, what shall we say of the conduct of the 
prisoner, who agreed to their proposals^ encouraged their 
bloodthirsty schemes, accepted their wages, and then 
betrayed them to the common enemy of them and of his 
country? Georges Cadoudal, wild but loyal enthusiast, 
sealed with his blood his devotion to the lost cause of 
his king; on this man lies the guilt of his death on 
this man, who cannot even plead loyalty to the Corsican 
usurper as his excuse; who stands as black a traitor to 
his country and his nation as to the employers who trusted 
and rewarded him.’’ 

Mr. Perceval then came to the present plot, giving a 

^ Friend’s historian may perhaps be permitted a word here to 
rebut this accusation, which was the only thing in the prosecutor’s 
speech which really annoyed him. Even had he had the op- 
portunity, however, he would have disdained to defend himself 
to so hostile an audience. But he had in reality entertained a 
great admiration for Cadoudal; and though foreseeing from the 
first the result of his plot, he sincerely regretted his death. It 
was true he had revealed the confidences of his English accom- 
plices to Napoleon, but he had had no hand whatever in 
Cadoudal’s betrayal, who would inevitably have lost his life had 
the English complicity in Iks plot never come to Napoleon’s 
knowledge. 


268 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

graphic description of the danger in which the country 
stood, of Sauvignac’s visits and of Friend's connection 
with him, and their plan to assist Napoleon's disem- 
barkation. The correspondence which lay before the 
Court revealed it with sufficient precision; and all felt 
that, with that damning evidence against him, not a 
chance, not a hope, was left for the prisoner. He knew 
it himself. '' I'm not going to bate one feather's weight 
of my struggle," he was saying to himself; ‘‘I'm going 
to fight on just as if I had a chance of getting off; 
still, I may call myself a dead man now." He remained 
unmoved if grim ; resolved to let no trace of sensibility 
be visible in his bearing. He stiffened his muscles and 
stood firm and composed. The feeling of the audience 
was so intense that the Attorney-General's eloquence of 
invective was hardly needed. When he concluded and 
sat down a sound ran through the court, a hard indraw- 
ing of breath, and every eye was fixed on the prisoner 
with malignity that seemed to create a visible atmosphere 
around him, as if he had been cut off from the humanity 
about him by an impassable barrier. 

Susan's heart beat high, for now the witnesses for the 
prosecution were to be called; and so did that of her 
husband as he stepped into the witness-box. When the 
trial was actually within sight he had begun to shrink 
from his duty as witness. His animosity was gradually 
dying away; Susan's expostulations had forcibly recalled 
to him his happy early relations with Friend. He felt 
that the denunciation did not come gracefully from him. 
And the sight of Friend and his composed, manly bearing 
recalled his past attachment yet more vividly. A reac- 
tion in his favor too was caused by the visible hostility 
of the audience ; the atmosphere of the trial was not that 
of a court of impartial justice; the case was too obviously 
that of one man fighting for his life against an organized 
army hungry for his death. Will was conscious of pain- 


THE TRIAL— FIRST DAY 269 

ful agitation as he took the oath, and then looking at 
the prisoner received his full, keen glance, which pierced 
him through as though it could read his inmost thoughts. 
He hastily averted his eyes; he did not dare to face a 
look like that. 

The examining counsel elicited from him the story of 
his mission to Pitt with the letters, their robbery and 
subsequent recovery, and his detection of Sauvignac with 
the incriminating note from Friend. This note was 
produced and he identified it; other specimens of the 
prisoner's handwriting were shown and identified, and 
were in turn passed to the jury. His courage rose a 
little as he retraced all that had happened; after all, no 
other course had been possible for him ; and the duty of 
telling the truth openly and without fear was a plain one. 

But when he had finished, Serjeant Mortimer, Friend's 
counsel, rose, and with a very sweet smile intimated that 
he wished to cross-examine the witness. 

Will you have the goodness, Mr. North,” he began, 
‘‘ to tell the jury when and how you first met the 
prisoner ? ” 

It was at Brighton this last May. I had been fortu- 
nate enough to be of some service to Mr. Friend's ward, 
in the course of which I — I met with a slight — an acci- 
dent; an accident which temporarily disabled me. Mrs. 
Friend in the absence of her husband was kind enough 
to take me into her house and nurse me until I had re- 
covered; and on Mr. Friend's return I was introduced to 
him.” 

Oh yes ; oh yes ; and an acquaintance — I think I may 
say a friendship — resulted?” 

'‘Yes; I received the greatest kindness both from 
Mrs. and Mr. Friend. At that time I was quite unaware 
of his treasonable activities.” 

" Oh ! you were quite unaware of his treasonable 
activities ? ” drawled Sergeant Mortimer, laying an am- 


270 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

biguous emphasis on the two last words. May I 
ask whether you perceived anything in his behavior or 
conversation which aroused your suspicions ? 

'' No, nothing whatever.’' 

‘‘Are you confident of that? Did not some trifling 
circumstance strike you? You surely felt some doubts 
or qualms ? ” 

“ Never; certainly never. Mr. Friend’s whole bearing 
and conduct impressed me with the most entire belief 
in his rectitude. I never met a man I trusted so en- 
tirely. I could not have believed ” 

“ Never mind what you could not have believed, Mr. 
North; I want the jury to hear what you did believe. 
You did believe Mr. Friend to be a loyal subject and 
an honorable man, then, I understand? You were very 
favorably impressed by him ? ” 

“ Exceedingly so. I cannot speak highly enough of 
his kindness, and that of his wife, to me.” 

“ Ah; I see. Well, Mr. North, and what was the next 
step in your acquaintance ? ” 

“ I think I must call the next step my receiving an 
appointment to a clerkship in the Admiralty Office, 
which I believe was due to his influence.” 

“ Indeed ! He possessed influence to procure you a 
clerkship in so important an office! Surely you had 
other claims to so good an appointment?” 

“ None whatever. I was entirely friendless, and I 
may even say destitute, at the time.” 

“ It appears to me as if you owed my client a heavy 
debt of gratitude, Mr. North. And now I must ask 
you a further question. Has it come to your ears 
lately that Mr. Friend has an enemy in high quarters, 
an influential personage of an eminence to which I will 
not more particularly allude, who imagines he entertains 
a grievance against him of old standing, in consequence 
of which he has been known to threaten his death ? ” 


THE TRIAL— FIRST DAY 


271 


Will was silent, excessively uncomfortable. Lord 
Mountstephen was regarding the daring counsel with a 
rigid and colorless countenance, his eyes gleaming dan- 
gerously, but not a muscle of his face moved. Ser- 
jeant Mortimer kept his eyes heedfully away from his 
direction, concentrating them relentlessly on Will. 
Friend watched with close attention, a twinkle of sardonic 
enjoyment lurking in his expression. 

Well, Mr. North?” 

I — I believe — I suppose — I imagine I understand to 
what you refer,” faltered Will, almost inaudibly. 

‘‘ I do not refer, sir ; I ask a plain question, to which 
I want a plain answer. Do you know if there is such 
a person?” 

“ I — I believe there is,” stammered the witness. 

“ Do you know there is^ Mr. North? Have you with 
your own ears heard him threaten my client with 
death?” 

I — I believe I have.” 

Speak up, Mr. North; let the jury hear you. Have 
you or have you not heard this individual threaten the 
prisoner with death ? ” 

I have.” 

‘‘ And is it not a fact, Mr. North,” said the Serjeant, 
drawing himself up and swelling out to his fullest pro- 
portions, and bending the utmost terrors of his frown 
on Will, ‘‘ that you have lately — since laying information 
against the prisoner — you have lately been receiving 
many favors from this individual, have enjoyed his hos- 
pitality, and have even received sums of money from 
him?” 

I have,” stammered the wretched witness. 

‘‘And how much money have you received ? ” 

I cannot say — it was not all in one sum — it was at 
different times — they were entirely friendly gifts.” 

‘‘ It was as a friendly gift that you received this 


272 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

blood-money! And to how much might it amount? I 
must press you for an answer, Mr. North. You cannot 
possibly be ignorant. Was it as much as a thousand 
pounds? Five hundred? Two thousand?’’ 

Perhaps altogether about six hundred pounds,” fal- 
tered Will ; but it was not on that account — it was for 
an altogether different reason.” 

'' Mr. North, you are speaking on your oath. Do 
you mean to deny that the reason of the extraordinary 
favor which this individual showed you was that you 
had brought about the arrest of the man he had vowed 
to ruin?” 

That — that was not the only reason.” 

‘'Not the only reason? But perhaps the principal 
one? Would you mind explaining to the jury what the 
other reason was ? ” 

But Will remained silent. He could not bring him- 
self to refer to Susan, even if it had not been a matter 
of common knowledge that he had recently married the 
presiding judge’s granddaughter. Lord Mountstephen 
hardly breathed. Serjeant Mortimer did not press for 
the answer he had no wish to obtain. “ The witness 
cannot explain what the other reason for this extraor- 
dinary generosity was, gentlemen,” he said sneeringly 
to the jury; “I think we may rest content with what 
we have learnt. We are beginning to see something 
that looks to me very like a conspiracy against my 

client.” “ My lord — gentlemen ” interrupted Will, 

in an agony; but the Serjeant turned on him fiercely. 
“ Silence, sir; do not interfere with the course of justice. 
I have no doubt you would like to protest against seeing 
your actions brought into the light of day; but it is not 
permitted you, sir; this is a court of law and justice. 
Your part is to answer my questions; it is for the 
jury to deduce from your replies the true nature of 
' your deeds.” He glared at him in silence, Will, cowed 


THE TRIAL— FIRST DAY 273 

and confused, was not quite sure for the moment whether 
the charge was not true. 

'' And now, Mr. North,’’ resumed the torturer, I 
want a little more light on this extraordinary tale of 
the robbery of the Government despatches. On whom 
did your suspicions first alight when you discovered 
your loss ? ” 

Will narrated his suspicions of Rangsley, and led on 
by the counsel told the tale of how he had arrested him, 
and had been in his turn captured, and finally released 
by Friend. 

And do you not suppose, Mr. North,” said his ques- 
tioner, that had my client really been in league with 
this French spy, it would have been far simpler and 
safer for him to have left you in the hands of the smug- 
glers and to have retained the packet ? ” 

Perhaps it might.” 

‘‘ At any rate, it seems very evident to me that he 
would not have been standing where he stands to-day 
had he taken such a course. But he risked his life by 
venturing among those bloodthirsty savages to save 
yours — your life, whom, had he been the traitor you 
pretend, he must have known to be his enemy. Was 
this the conduct of a conscienceless and cold-blooded 
traitor? Eh, Mr. North? Or was it not rather that 
of a faithful and disinterested friend? What do you 
say, Mr. North?” But Will could not answer. ''You 
prefer to make no reply to this question^ I perceive. 
Perhaps we can hardly expect it. I think the jury 
will be the better able to appreciate your silence when 
they have heard your answers to the questions I am next 
going to put. Now, Mr. North, let me remind you, 
you are upon your oath. I require a truthful answer; 
and here your silence will no longer be permitted. Will 
you inform the jury what was your occupation previous 
to your acquaintance with Mr. Friend?” 


274 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

I — I was in the service of Lord Combleigh,” said 
Will, the sweat breaking out on his brow. 

Friend's twinkle of amusement had disappeared, and 
his countenance darkened as Will's torture proceeded. 
At this point he scribbled some words on a scrap of 
paper and passed them to his attorney. 

‘‘ In the service of Lord Combleigh ? " continued Ser- 
jeant Mortimer; of Lord Combleigh, the eminent Co- 
rinthian, that pattern to our younger nobility ? An hon- 
orable service, indeed! And pray, in what capacity, 
Mr. North?" 

Will hesitated. 

“ Come, out with it, Mr, North. In what capacity 
did you serve Lord Combleigh ? " 

The attorney here put Friend's note into the counsel's 
hand; and while waiting for Will's answer he glanced 
over it. A brief interchange of looks took place be- 
tween him and his client. He frowned, protesting. 
Friend insisted. He turned back to the jury with an 
impatient gesture. ‘‘ My lords and gentlemen of the 
jury, the prisoner with unexampled generosity is un- 
willing that I should further expose this unfortunate 
young man. The tenderness which he still bears to his 
young friend of former days will not suffer me to drag 
into the light of day all his shameful past " — Friend cast 
a threatening glance at his counsel. — In deference to 
his generous susceptibilities I will say no more on this 
topic; the witness is excused. But, gentlemen, I rely 
on your love of fair play to bear in mind that it is only 

the forbearance of the prisoner that " Here one 

of the judges, after a look and word interchanged with 
Lord Mountstephen, interposed. ‘‘ The learned counsel 
must confine himself at present to his cross-examination; 
he cannot be permitted at this point to speak in the 
defense." Serjeant Mortimer bowed. “ If your lord- 
ship pleases. I had just concluded. I only wish to 


THE TRIAL— FIRST DAY 


275 


point out to the jury that there are facts against the 
witness which he is unable to deny, and which but for 
the generosity of my client they would hear him admit 
with his own mouth; and I therefore appeal to them 
not to let the noble disinterestedness of the prisoner 
prejudice his cause, but with the candor and generosity 
of Englishmen to give him the benefit of his self-sacri- 
fice.” Speaking very rapidly, Serjeant Mortimer fin- 
ished his exordium before he could be checked again, 
and sat down with a look of conscious triumph. 

Will, shaken and bruised in spirit, stumbled out of 
the witness-box. As he did so he shot a glance at 
Friend, and received a smile so hearty, reassuring^ and 
comprehending, that at the same time it strengthened 
him like a cordial and went to his heart like an arrow. 
He retired to the back of the court and tried to hide 
himself. His misery was intense. The Serjeant's rep- 
resentations, unfair though he knew them to be, roused 
the acutest sense of the ill return he had made to 
Friend. His old affection returned on him in a flood. 
The prisoner's dignified calm, his carelessness of self, 
the absence of all petty feeling or weakness, revived 
his admiration. He forgot that he had been duped 
and betrayed by him; he only saw the man who had 
befriended him and had stood between him and his 
worser self. Once again Friend shot up to the stature 
of a hero. 

Sorrow and admiration were strengthening their grip 
on Susan also, and were increased by the contrast which 
she drew between him and her husband as he appeared 
in the witness-box. She made no allowance for his 
agony; in fact, the very signs of his suffering, his shak- 
ing knees, the trembling hand that wiped his streaming 
brow^ his changing color, revolted her. She did not 
perceive that he was going through an ordeal far more 
severe than the prisoner's; and she burnt with deep 


276 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

resentment against him for the public exposure he made 
of himself and her. ''A drunkard; a weakling/’ she 
pronounced him : and then she turned away her thoughts 
with indignant contempt and concentrated them on the 
prisoner in the dock, who confronted his enemies and 
his doom with disdainful ease. She longed to catch 
his eye and silently implore some sign pf recognition. 

There were a few other witnesses, who spoke to the 
seizure of the papers and the scene of the arrest; and 
then the case for the Crown was closed. It was nearly 
seven . o’clock, and the Court adjourned till the next 
day. Susan, very silent and absorbed, drove home to 
his house in Russell Square with her grandfather^ who 
was as disinclined as herself for conversation. Per- 
haps of all who suffered during the course of the trial, 
his torture during Serjeant Mortimer’s audacious refer- 
ences to him had been the keenest. With every word 
he waited to hear himself betrayed: and even though 
the scene had ended without direct identification, he 
felt that all who knew him and his relations to the wit- 
ness would instantly perceive the truth. Bitterly he 
wished he had declined to preside. But his pride had 
forbidden him to allow that he had as much as heard 
of Friend before his name gained notoriety through his 
arrest. He sat still in stoical composure, never flinching 
when the prisoner turned his eyes on him and pierced 
him with a look of triumphant mockery. ''Yes, old 
man,” his glance said plainly, " you may prove me guilty 
of high treason, but how do you come out from this 
ordeal? How do you like the part that you have 
played ? ” His solace was to remember that his turn 
was coming; that it would soon be his part to draw 
Friend for the public view in any colors he liked; and 
deeply he vowed that he would be equal to the occasion. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE TRIAL — SECOND DAY 

When the Court sat the next morning Serjeant Morti- 
mer rose for the defense. Susan had looked forward 
to his speech with breathless impatience, hoping against 
reason that the facts against the prisoner should be 
swept away. But she was disappointed. The Serjeant 
did indeed suggest that the papers had not been proved 
to belong to Friend, and that there was no evidence 
to show the prisoner’s identity with the Dubois addressed 
in the correspondence; but these arguments were felt 
to be so weak that he did not linger on them. Then 
he came to Will’s evidence, which he treated with dis- 
dain as unworthy of belief. ‘‘ In fact, my lords and 
gentlemen, the truth about this miserable young man 
is easy to recognize. Born and brought up in infamous 
surroundings, he was rescued and placed in respectable 
circumstances by my client; but, with a mind insensible 
to gratitude or any feeling of obligation, forgetful of 
the affection and respect that even now he cannot deny 
having entertained, he allowed himself to be bribed to 
enter the infamous conspiracy against him, betrayed him 
to his enemies, and is immediately afterwards found 
wallowing in the favor and golden rewards of one whom 
he admits to have plotted with him his death. To this 
you have heard him himself confess. Can it be doubted 
that this note on which the witness relied for the estab- 
lishment of the prisoner’s guilt was a forgery, was part 
277 


278 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

of the plot concocted for his destruction? For is it 
possible to believe that had my client really been at that 
moment implicated in the schemes of the French spy, 
he would have imperiled his life among the smugglers 
for the rescue of North, as you have heard from the 
last-named’s own lips that he did? You have heard 
from him too his impressions of the character of my 
client — the character given him by an avowed enemy. 
Is this consonant with his tale of treason? No, gentle- 
men; my client is the victim of a plot; of an intrigue 
blacker than any attributed to him, and which only the 
fear of powerful enemies and the deference due to those 
high in the confidence and counsels of the nation pre- 
vents me from unveiling. Would that I might — would 
that I dared! The very hair would bristle on your 
heads, gentlemen — a thrill of horror would run through 
this court at the turpitude revealed in the highest places. 
My client, gentlemen, is not a wealthy man; he is not 
a great man, of birth and breeding and consideration 
in the eyes of the world. His way he has made him- 
self by sheer industry and talent; friendless, without 
wealth, without influence, he stands alone. But all these 
advantages were arrayed against him. His enemy is 
one of the great ones of the earth, wealthy, influential, 
honored. All the privileges of position and fortune 
were possessed by the man who vowed to ruin him; 
who laid his plans and spread his toils with devilish 
ingenuity; and who, when he saw the tool for which he 
had waited, without remorse and without difficulty — oh, 
be sure, without much difficulty ! — bought up the wretched 
young man on whose evidence the prosecution relies, 
and concocted with him the story of his treason and 
the flimsy testimony of the note on which it is sup- 
ported. 

'' But, gentlemen, I am here alone and unaided ; I 
sustain an unpopular cause. The great ones of the 


THE TRIAL— SECOND DAY 


279 


earth are against me; what chance has the poor man, 
friendless and obscure, against the banded influence of 
the governing, the landed, and the moneyed classes? 
We know what has happened to the champions of the 
people's liberty ; we know how the prison and the pillory 
wait for those who have the audacity to publish the 
secret infamies of the great. I can say no more; my 
mouth is closed by an authority I may not contend 
against. I must leave this side of my client's cause to 
your own imaginations, kindled and alert as they are 
with the love of liberty never to be extinguished in any 
English breast. Let us now turn to the legal aspects 
of the case. Here we are on safer ground, for not 
the most bigoted politician but respects the letter of the 
law. And I will show you, my lords and gentlemen 
of the jury, that, let the prosecution say what they will, 
they can bring nothing home to my client." 

Serjeant Mortimer then proceeded to examine the 
legal aspects of the case and to pull to pieces the pro- 
cedure of the prosecution. First the indictment was 
shown to be wrongly drawn, and in so many particulars 
that it seemed marvelous the Crown's advisers should 
be so ignorant of their business. Then he found fault 
with the place of trial. It appeared that it should not 
have been held in London at all ; Kent was the scene 
of the plot, and unless convicted in Kent Friend could 
not be said to have been convicted at all. This was 
a very strong argument, and seemed to carry much 
weight with the rows of counsel sitting behind the bar. 
The wigged heads turned and conferred together upon 
it, and seemed thrown into some consternation; the two 
junior judges took notes with anxious brows, but Lord 
Mountstephen sat still and unmoved. And then much 
was made of the question of Overt Acts. Susan did 
not precisely understand what these were ; but it seemed 
that because Friend had not been proved to have helped 


280 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

a French soldier to land, or to have lighted a bonfire 
to guide the enemy — in short, as whatever he might 
have intended he had effected nothing — he could not 
have been guilty of any Overt Act, and that if he were 
not guilty of an Overt Act he was not guilty at all. 
And so, inch by inch, the ground was contested. She 
grew very weary before it was over, for what she longed 
to hear was that the damning correspondence could not 
be attributed to him; and no more was said on that 
point. 

Witnesses were then called for the defense; but try 
as Serjeant Mortimer and his junior might, they could 
elicit nothing more from them than praise of the pris- 
oner’s character and the absence of suspicion. Mr. 
Hunt from the Admiralty was called, and admitted that 
he had supposed the prisoner to be an honest man, but 
guardedly said that he had really known very little 
of him. Of course his connection with the Romney 
Marsh smugglers was disclosed; but Mr. Mortimer in 
his speech summing up. the defense, pointed out that 
the smuggling enterprise had no bearing on the question 
at trial and must not be allowed to influence the jury 
in their decision. The revelations of Friend’s past made 
by the prosecution they were also to dismiss from their 
minds. “ Gentlemen, I am not concerned to defend 
my client from these monstrous stories. Believe if you 
can that this man, this obscure individual, who is ac- 
knowledged even by those who now appear against him 
to have been diligent and unremitting in his attention 
to his duties, was at the same time coming and going 
between Ireland and France, corresponding with the 
Irish rebels and fomenting the insurrection of Emmett, 
and also conducting negotiations between the rash and 
unfortunate conspirators against Bonaparte, our own 
misguided participators in that disastrous affair, and 
the arch-enemy of all, the Emperor of the French. If 


THE TRIAI^SECOND DAY 


281 


it were humanly possible that one man could undertake 
and carry through so much, so tortuous a web of in- 
trigue, still, gentlemen, this is not the point at issue. 
You are not here to try my client for participation in 
the Irish rebellion; you are not here to decide his guilt 
or innocence in the Cadoudal affair; as my lord will 
tell you, you must banish these matters from your mind. 
They cannot affect the point at issue, which is the single 
question of this alleged Kentish attempt to procure the 
landing of Napoleon.'’ 

Serjeant Mortimer then passed on to recapitulate the 
technical points which formed the only genuine basis of 
his defense; for the attack on North and the suggestion 
of a powerful enemy plotting against Friend were not 
expected to effect anything but the bewilderment of the 
jury and the creation of that vague feeling of good will 
which Englishmen always entertain towards the op- 
pressed. But the legal arguments, though not bearing 
on his actual guilt, would form if established a real 
ground for his acquittal; and were accordingly labored 
with all the acuteness and perseverance imaginable. The 
Serjeant concluded with an eloquent appeal to the Court 
to respect the letter of the law, even implying that it 
was better and safer for the country to set free an 
acknowledged traitor than to condemn him in a manner 
not strictly in accordance with precedent and technical 
exactitude; and after a brilliant invocation of the law 
as the bulwark of the British Constitution as well as 
the safeguard of individual liberty, he sat down. The 
members of the Bar in court were filled with admiration 
at the ingenuity and subtlety of the defense. It was 
a splendid effort, but a hopeless one. Had it been a 
civil case or one appealing less to popular feeling, it 
might have been successful; but here public resentment 
ran too high to allow the prisoner to escape on a tech- 
nicality. Friend listened throughout with the closest 


282 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

attention. Now and then he whispered to his attorney, 
suggesting a point or asking a question. His grasp of 
the law involved inspired his advisers with amazement, 
for the points he took were those the acutest lawyers 
would have seized. 

At the close of Serjeant Mortimer’s speech the Court 
adjourned. It was nearly four o’clock. On its return, 
the Attorney-General rose to reply for the Crown. Then 
all the ingenious sophistries and quibbles of the defense 
were swept away like cobwebs before the relentless ex- 
posure of the prosecution. The indictment was shown 
to be in order, the trial held in the right place — for 
though the rising was to have taken place in Kent, the 
plot was laid and the correspondence conducted in Lon- 
don — and the Overt Acts committed. Mr. Percival 
proved himself an acute lawyer in replying to the tech- 
nical arguments of the defense; but he showed the real 
gist of the matter to be not in the points of law in- 
volved, and by a powerful appeal to the facts before 
them he lifted the question out of the region of legal 
quibbles into the atmosphere of common-sense and simple 
logic. With a few strong words he rehabilitated Will’s 
character and restored his evidence to credence. He 
descended with crushing force on Serjeant Mortimer 
for his assertion that he dared not reveal the truth of 
the conspiracy against Friend for fear of the great 
names involved; he stigmatized the utterance as an au- 
dacious and unblushing slander on English justice^ and 
reiterated that the speaker was self-condemned in saying 
it. His appeal was to English reason and English jus- 
tice; and it was obvious that he easily carried the jury 
with him. After his speech the defense lost all its 
power, except with those who on professional grounds 
admired its daring and acumen. 

The court was dark before he sat down. Candles 
were lighted when Lord Mountstephen proceeded to 


THE TRIAL— SECOND DAY 283 

sum up. His voice at first was a little uncertain. Some 
of the counsel remarked it and commented on it to- 
gether in whispers. Old Mountstephen is breaking up 
fast; he's getting a very old stager now." But he re- 
covered himself as he went on: and there was no weak- 
ness apparent after he had once started. His grasp 
of the facts, his mastery of the law, were indeed ap- 
parent from the beginning. He crushed Serjeant Mor- 
timer's contentions with a hand even heavier than that 
of the prosecution. He pointed out to the jury that 
the documentary evidence against the prisoner remained 
absolutely unshaken, and assured them that it was their 
plain duty to convict the prisoner. '' Gentlemen, you 
will give what weight to the evidence it deserves; and 
if there be a single doubt remaining in your mind as 
to the prisoner's guilt, you will give him the benefit of 
that doubt"; — how magnanimous he thought himself as 
he said it ! — ‘‘ but, gentlemen, I may assure you, that if 
you possess the intelligence which alone can entitle you 
to the responsible position you now hold, there can be 
no more doubt remaining in your minds. The points 
of law involved I have explained to you, and have shown 
exhaustively that they do not aflfect the prisoner's posi- 
tion, or that they are a misreading of the law and a 
misinterpretation of precedent. As patriots, as lovers 
of truth and justice, as Englishmen, it is your duty to 
protect your country from such diabolical and treach- 
erous attempts as these ; and I trust that by your verdict 
you will show that you realize the peril we have run, 
and the demand made by justice for a signal requital." 

The jury then withdrew. Susan sighed, and looked 
round the court. Will came to her, craving for sym- 
pathy and consolation, and she felt him standing be- 
hind her; but she would not speak to him nor look at 
him. She could not forgive him. Besides, her thoughts 
were all engrossed with Friend. 


2 84 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

. He was chatting with his counsel. During the de- 
fense he had betrayed some anxiety when Serjeant Mor- 
timer was slow in making some point he looked for, or 
appeared to forget an instance they had prepared to- 
gether. When the speech was over he leant back and 
wiped his forehead; it was the only sign of emotion 
he showed. He listened to the reply of the prosecu- 
tion and the summing up of the judge with attentive 
calm. 

Well, weVe made a good fight, Mr. Friend,'' said 
Serjeant Mortimer. 

^‘Yes, it was a pretty fight; I think we took every 
point it was possible to do. I say, Serjeant, we had 
a nice little dig at old Mountstephen, hey? I thor- 
oughly enjoyed myself while you were laying into 
him." 

‘‘ I don't think he enjoyed himself much," owned Ser- 
jeant Mortimer with a grim smile. 

‘‘ No ; I fancy you made him writhe a bit internally. 
Well, it's his turn now; but it consoles me a good deal 
to think that I've had my stroke at him. This may be 
of service to me afterwards, too. ... By the way, Ser- 
jeant, I thought at the time you did not make quite 
enough of that case of Rex versus Knight. Couldn't 
you have put that point about the overt acts rather more 
strongly?" 

I don't think so, Mr. Friend. You see, after all, 
the case is not on all fours with yours." 

Well, you know best, of course. I should have 
thought it might have been made to square. But, 
after all, it would have made no difference to the 
result. Old Mountstephen made short work of all our 
labor." 

It is a defense that will be long remembered in legal 
circles, Mr. Friend, however it may result for you. I 
may say so without vanity, as it owes so much to your 


THE TRIAI^SECOND DAY 285 

own suggestions. From the lawyer’s point of view we 
may congratulate ourselves.” 

'' Fm obliged to you for your compliment, sir. And 
in fact it’s all I expected to do — to give them a good 
run for their money,” said Friend. The result was 
a foregone conclusion from the first. Fm a cornered 
rat, hey? There’s not a single soul here but is bent 
on hanging me — with the exception perhaps of the prin- 
cipal witness for the Crown.” 

‘‘ I fear — I greatly fear your chance is a small one.” 

‘‘ It’s no chance at all, sir. I’ve no illusions on that 
point. I must build my hopes on what I can do after- 
wards. But Fm obliged to you all the same for your 
splendid efforts on my behalf. You have made a great 
exertion, and Fm sorry for your sake it was in so hope- 
less a cause. But your ingenuity and persistence will 
be amply recognized by your brothers at the bar. I 
saw the effect you made with the question of the place of 
trial.” 

‘‘As to that, Mr. Friend, the defense was practically 
your own, you know.” 

“ Oh^ no, Serjeant; you can’t say that. Fm only 
an amateur in the law. And you had the responsibility 
and fatigue of delivering it. Ah, here come the jury. 
They’ve not taken long. Now for it.” 

“ I am glad you can meet the verdict with such courage, 
Mr. Friend.” 

“Oh, Fm game enough, Serjeant.” 

A rustle ran through the court, a stir of expectation. 
Silence was called for. A deep hush settled over the 
hall. The clerk of the arraigns called over the names 
of the jury. “ Gentlemen, how say you? Do you find 
the prisoner at the bar, John Friend, guilty or not 
guilty ? ” 

“ Guilty,” replied the foreman. 

There was a buzz, a roar, a yell of triumph from the 


286 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

court. Friend remained calm; but his was the only un- 
moved countenance in the assembly. The very judges 
showed a decorous satisfaction, except for Lord Mount- 
stephen, who permitted himself a remarkably malignant 
smile. Silence was at length restored, and Friend was 
put to the bar, and asked if he had anything to say why 
sentence of death should not be passed upon him accord- 
ing to law. 

‘‘ I have nothing to say/^ he replied, his magnificent 
voice ringing out deep and sonorous through the court. 

Go on ; do your worst. What you can inflict I can 
endure.’’ 

Lord Mountstephen drew on the black cap to pro- 
nounce sentence. Susan’s eyes turned from one to the 
other, struck by the contrast they presented: the judge 
in his wig and robes, commanding and aristocratic in 
countenance, haughty and imposing in place and air; 
and Friend confronting him in the far more impressive 
dignity of defeat. 

‘‘ John Friend,” said Lord Mountstephen, you have 
received a full and most impartial trial; and notwith- 
standing that the nature of your crime is one that, 
both on account of the danger you have drawn upon 
your country and the detestation it must infallibly breed 
in the heart of every loyal Englishman^ might well have 
been rewarded with a summary punishment without 
stepping beyond the bounds of justice, you have yet 
been permitted to avail yourself of every intricacy of 
the law, and of every indulgence which its clemency 
offers to the innocent. But your devilish designs have 
fortunately through the mercy of God been brought to 
the light of day so clearly that no legal subterfuge or 
pretense of innocence can avail you. You have been 
found guilty by the unanimous voice of twelve of your 
countrymen, to whom even yourself after severest 
struggles could take no exception. 


THE TRIAL— SECOND DAY 


287 


There is little need that I should dwell on the heinous 
nature of crimes that have brought a shudder to the 
soul of every inhabitant of this country, in order to 
mark the detestation felt towards them by the nation 
whose sovereign I here represent; but in view of your 
speedy appearance at a higher tribunal and in order 
to awaken your mind to a due sense of the awfulness 
of your guilt, it is my duty to point out to you the 
desperate nature of your crime. Born a happy subject 
of the most just, free^ and merciful rule that ever raised 
a people to prosperity and glory, you have with damnable 
treason labored to subvert, overturn, and destroy the 
government whose paternal care insured you the very 
safety that enabled you to prosecute your nefarious 
designs. Seeking your own base advantage and for 
the despicable greed of filthy lucre you revolted from 
the loyalty you owed to the sacred person of your 
sovereign, you leagued yourself with his enemies, and 
sought to introduce the horrors of war and of a foreign 
foe into the peaceful bosom of your country. And to 
these black crimes you have added a malignancy and 
treachery of spirit, a callousness of conscience, a falsity 
and brutality of nature, that cast a deeper shade even 
upon treason itself, and would have justly won for you 
even in private life the abhorrence and detestation of all 
honest men. I can only trust that your hellish treasons 
being now unmasked and your true character displayed 
in all its depravity to the gaze of the world, the horror 
universally felt for such guilt will be a warning to the 
disaffected who still lurk among us; and that the awful 
sentence I am about to pronounce upon you may have 
a salutary effect upon their minds, and show to them 
the necessary consequences o^ a career of self-interest, 
disloyalty, and treason, which, be it soon or late, in- 
evitably wins for its reward the fate you are now to 
meet, th^ fit ending of a life spent in treachery, 


288 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

perjury, and the unspeakable vileness of the hired 
informer. 

It only remains to me now sincerely to exhort you, 
John Friend, to employ the short remainder of your 
earthly existence in the earnest endeavor to cleanse your 
sinful soul of its manifold crimes and wickedness^ which 
must be greater than are known to any mortal man, 
that you may meet the awful hour of your death with 
a humility and penitence more befitting your condition 
than any assumed insensibility or bravado, and which 
alone can entitle you to the hope of finding mercy from 
your offended God. Recommending to you this last im- 
perishable hope, I now pronounce upon you the sentence 
of the law on the foul crime of which you stand convicted ; 
which sentence is, that you be taken back to the place 
from whence you came, and thence to the place of exe- 
cution, and there be hanged by the neck, but not until 
you are dead; but that you be taken down again, and 
that whilst you are yet alive your bowels be taken out 
and burnt before your face; and that afterwards your 
head be severed from your body, and your body be 
divided into four quarters, and your head and quarters 
to be at the king's disposal. And may Almighty God 
have mercy on your soul." 

Amen! " replied John Friend, looking the judge full 
in the face. Lord Mountstephen scowled at him, and 
then hastily averted his eyes. 

Friend was led away. Susan started up, trying to 
catch his eye before it was too late. It was already 
too late; he was gone. He had not seen her, or, seeing 
her, had given no sign of recognition. Wild with sor- 
row and with the long strain of emotion her smothered 
revolt suddenly boiled over. To break her bonds seemed 
a simple and easy thing. She touched Will on the 
shoulder. 

Good-by," she said. ‘‘ I am going home — ^home to 


THE TRIAL— SECOND DAY 289 

my mother — to my aunt Friend. Don’t come after me; 
I have done with you; it is all over between us. I will 
never see you again. I must go back to her — I must go 
home to my mother. Dr. Bentley is here ; he will take 
me.” And before the stupefied Will could realize her 
meaning, she had signaled to Dr. Bentley and was mak- 
ing her way to him through the crowd. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


YOUTH AND EXPERIENCE 

Mrs. Friend had spent most of the interval between 
her husband's arrest and his trial in Westminster Abbey. 
Its quiet and seclusion were the greatest comfort to her. 
There she could remain without fear of pointing fingers 
and whispered words; there, secure in her own insignifi- 
cance, she could join in the prayers of the Church, and 
in solitude pour out her own. Every morning Dr. Bent- 
ley took her in to the early service, and she generally 
spent the whole day there, never returning till dusk 
unless her cousin fetched her home and made her take 
some dinner. But on the day of the trial she would 
not go. It is no place for me to-day," she said, in 
almost inaudible tones. ‘‘ It is not among the honored 
and renowned dead that I can await my sentence. I 
cannot take my shame into the presence of their monu- 
ments." Dr. Bentley took her into St. Margaret's, the 
little church lying under the shadow of the Abbey; and 
there she spent the day. She did not dare to pray 
for an acquittal. The issue of the trial seemed almost 
to matter little ; she was entirely absorbed in the thought 
of her husband's guilt. She had begged her cousin 
not to disturb her; and she remained there without food 
till the gathering darkness drove her home. Then Mrs. 
Bentley insisted on her making a meal. She took the 
food almost unconsciously, but ate a fair amount. She 
spent the second day in the same manner. Dr. Bentley 
brought news of how the trial was going. 

290 


YOUTH AND EXPERIENCE 


291 


The two cousins sat together in the drawing-room. 
It was seven o’clock. No news of the day’s proceedings 
had reached them. They said little. How long will 
it take them to get here from the Old Bailey ? ” asked 
Mrs. Friend once. And once Mrs. Bentley said, Don’t 
you think, dear Mary, it may be a hopeful sign if the 
trial lasts a long while? ” Mrs. Friend shook her head. 
She had no hope. Or if indeed^ through some juggle of 
the law or miracle of mismanagement, an acquittal should 
be secured, what difference would it make to her real 
woe? Her husband would be none the less a traitor 
to be abhorred of all men. It might indeed give him 
a longer space for repentance; but was John Friend the 
man to repent because he had escaped from an apparently 
inevitable destruction ? She could almost hear his laugh 
of triumph, his chuckling delight; and she shivered at 
the thought. Better anything; better death than that! 

A dreadful restlessness overtook her as the evening 
wore on. She could not keep still. Once or twice she 
went out to the hall and listened at the door. There 
was no sound of approaching wheels or footsteps. She 
came back to the drawing-room and tried to control her- 
self; her foot worked against the floor; her fingers 
twisted themselves together. Surely it must be over 
by now! Again she rose to go and listen for wheels, 
but stopped herself. Margaret, dearest, I am very 
restless. I think I will go upstairs. I must not make 
you miserable with my impatience.” 

“ No^ dearest, stay here, unless you think you would 
be easier upstairs. I do not mind what you do. Walk 
about as much as you like.” 

“I can’t keep still!” said Mrs. Friend, half smiling 
sadly. ‘‘ I will go to my room ; I can fidget there with 
a better conscience.” 

“If you would rather, dearest, do.” 

Mrs. Friend went upstairs and shut herself into her 


292 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

room. She walked up and down restlessly: then she 
threw herself on her knees, and resolved to keep still 
even if she could not pray. She grew a little calmer. 

At last, soon after nine o’clock, a coach drove up to 
the door. She ran downstairs and reached the hall 
before Mrs. Bentley had got out of the drawing-room. 
She opened the door, and Susan threw herself into her 
arms. 

As they embraced, Mrs. Bentley looked inquiringly 
at her husband. He shook his head sadly. There was 
no need for further words. Dr. Bentley led the way into 
the drawing-room. Susan was sobbing wildly. She 
is overwrought,” said Dr. Bentley in a low tone. It 
has been a long, exhausting day. Get her some cordial, 
my dear; or some white wine whey, and some light 
food. You must want something too and by you ” 
he meant to include Mrs. Friend. 

Mrs. Bentley gave the orders and returned. Susan 
was still sobbing uncontrollably; she would not let go 
her aunt’s hand. Mrs. Friend was quite calm; she tried 
to soothe Susan and hush her sobs. She is worn out,” 
she said, looking at her cousin with eyes that seemed 
to have grown sunken and hollow. She ought to go 
to bed; she needs rest. You will let me have my child 
to sleep with me to-night? You will share my bed, 
Susan ? ” 

Take her upstairs, dear ; and we will send a tray to 
you.” 

Mrs. Friend took Susan to her bedroom. She seated 
her in a chair and took off her bonnet and cape, mur- 
muring words of endearment as if she had been a child. 

O aunt! You must not wait on me! Don’t! ” cried 
Susan through her sobs as her aunt unfastened her plaits 
of hair and began to brush it out. 

Let me, my darling. There is still this comfort left 
me. 


YOUTH AND EXPERIENCE 


293 


O aunt! Mother, mother, mother! You have been 
a mother to me all my life. Let me stay with you, 
mother ! 

''Surely, dearest. Where is Will? I don’t think I 
saw him.” 

" No. I have left him. I have come back to you, 
dearest mother. Take me in and let me stay with you; 
I have no one but you now.” 

" You are tired out, dear child. How late it is! Was 
the — were they so long in finishing ? ” 

"Yes, so long. It is over, dear mother. Can I ever 
forgive myself?” 

" Child, you are worn out. Let me wash your face 
for you. I shall think you are a child again^ Susan, — 
the little child of four you were when I first had you.” 

The maid knocked at the door with a tray of white 
wine whey and toast and biscuits. Mrs. Friend took it 
in and fed Susan as if she had been an infant. " But 
you must take some yourself, mother,” said the girl. 
Mrs. Friend shared it with her. 

Susan gradually stopped crying, and Mrs. Friend un- 
fastened her clothes and helped her into bed. " I ought 
to have undressed you on your wedding night, Susan,” 
she said. " I must do it now instead.” 

" O mother, mother, it is all over,” cried Susan. " I 
love him no more. I have left him; I will never see him 
again.” 

" Tell me all, my child. Wait till I am in bed, and 
then you shall lie in my arms and tell me everything. 
Let me tuck you up comfortably — so. Is that right?” 

" O mother, mother dear ! ” cried Susan, bursting into 
tears again. 

Mrs. Friend made haste to undress and join Susan. 
The girl held out her arms as she got into bed and folded 
her in her embrace. " Susan,” she whispered. “ First 
tell me about him.” 


294 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

He was grand ; he was magnificent ! Mother, I can- 
not forgive myself for having joined his enemies. It 
is I and my husband who have killed him/’ 

‘‘No, dear; you must not say that. You must not 
blame Will. Did he seem affected by his position at 
all?” 

“ Not in the least. No one could have thought he 
was being tried for his life. He was quite calm; quite 
at his ease. He did not seem to notice when the people 
yelled at him. And when — when Lord Mountstephen 
pronounced the sentence — ” she shuddered at the recol- 
lection — “ he looked him full in the face, steadily, with 
a little disdainful smile, till he had to look away.” 

“ And did he show any — did he show no sign of com- 
punction ? ” 

“ No, not a sign,” said Susan. “ Only when Lord 
Mountstephen had finished the sentence, and said “ And 
may Almighty God have mercy on your soul,’ he replied 
‘ Amen.’ But proudly, and as if he defied them all to 
do their worst.” 

Mrs. Friend sighed. “We need not pray that he may 
have strength to bear his fate, Susan,” she said. “ He 
has strength enough.” 

“ O mother, mother, and we have destroyed him ! ” 

“ Dear love, you must not let yourself think that. 
No one could have harmed him if he had not first be- 
trayed his country.” 

“ I seem to be unable to remember it,” sighed Susan. 
“ He is so grand a man that I can’t help forgiving him 
whatever he has done.” 

“And your husband, dearest; how did he stand the 
trial ? ” 

“ He did not stand it ; he could not stand it. It was 
terrible. It all came out about all my guardian had 
done for him, and how in return he betrayed him. It 
was dreadful. And he looked so — such a weakling ! ” 


YOUTH AND EXPERIENCE 


295 


** Dearest, think what a painful position it was for 
him. It was his very sensitiveness that made his suffer. 
You should have pity on him.” 

I could not, when I saw him shuffling and ashamed. 
Oh, it was a terrible scene, aunt. I was ashamed of 
him.” 

‘‘You, my love, ashamed of him?” 

“ Yes, dear aunt. I am ashamed of him. He is not 
what I thought he was ; he is weak ; — weak throughout.” 

“ And you have made up your mind to leave 
him?” 

“ What can I do? I do not love him any longer. He 
has killed my love. I believed him to be noble, strong, 
good. He is not; he is weak and contemptible.” 

“ But he is good, Susan.” 

“ I don't think he is good. He hasn't the strength 
to be good by himself. O aunt, I have been so miser- 
able ! ” She began to weep again. 

“He was not unkind to you, Susan?” 

“ No. He loves me — after his way. But — ^he has 
been very cruel, brutal, to me. It is his weakness. I 
despise weakness.” 

“ Tell me, dearest, just how it was.” 

“ I can't. If I only could ! But it is one of the things 
that cannot be told.” 

“ Tell me something, dear.” 

“ I can tell you this — that while we were with Lord 
Mountstephen he got intoxicated one night. He came 
to me in bed, drunk.” 

“ He was very sorry for it afterwards, love, was he 
not?” 

“Yes; but what good was that? Could he not keep 
sober for his wife to whom he had not been married a 
fortnight? ” 

“ Dear child, you have seen so little of the world ; you 
do not know how common a thing it is in society. It 


296 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

is often very hard, almost impossible for a man to avoid 
drinking more than is good for him.” 

It is just the hard things that I value. What do 
I care for easy tests? But he cannot keep a promise.” 

Can he not, dear ? What promise did he break to 
you ? ” 

“ Can I tell you ? Oh^ I can’t ! ” 

‘‘ If it would comfort you, do, dear. You are quite 
safe with me. I might help you.” 

“ But it is so shocking.” 

‘‘ I shall not be shocked.” 

‘‘ I should like to tell you. If only I could ! Well. . . . 
You remember how he asked me to marry him hurriedly, 
in a week’s time?” 

Yes.” 

“ I did not want to consent — I could not, so hastily. 
But it seemed so urgent — I had such need of a protector, 
and I so dreaded being forced into any other protection 
than his — that — I consented — on a condition.” 

And that was ? ” 

‘‘ That we should remain husband and wife only in 
name until — until I chose. I wanted to be older — I felt 
too young.” 

‘‘Yes, love. And he agreed?” 

“Yes. He thought a year too long to wait — but he 
promised me it should not be till I was ready.” 

“Yes, love. And then?” 

“And then we were married, and we started on our 
journey to Lord Mountstephen’s house, and at first it 
was all right. But the second night ” 

“Yes, dearest?” 

“ When we got to the inn it was full, and there was 
only one room we could have. And I did not want to 
make any fuss — it had been so unpleasant the night 
before at the other inn — so I told him I would allow 
him to sleep with me, never dreaming he would break 


YOUTH AND EXPERIENCE 


297 


his promise. But he thought — he supposed — that I 

meant — differently. And — and O aunt, he was 

brutal! I cried, I cried; I begged and beseeched — oh, 
oh, oh ! ’’ She covered her face in her hands and buried 
herself out of sight in the bedclothes. 

‘'Poor Susan! poor little child!'' 

“ Do you think I ought ever to have forgiven him, 
aunt ? " she demanded, suddenly sitting upright. 

“ Yes, my love," replied Mrs. Friend slowly; “ I think 
you ought to have forgiven him." 

“ Why, aunt ? When he broke the most solemn prom- 
ise — the very condition on which I married him ? ' 

“ Dear child, you know so little of men. If you had 
known, you could never have expected that he could 
share your bed and yet keep his promise. I will not 
say no man could; I know one who could; but there is 
not one man in a thousand, Susan, who could bear that 
best. You do not know what a strain you put him to. 
You ought to forgive him." 

“ But, aunt, I begged him, — I prayed, I wept " 

“ And it only inflamed him the more ? Susan, we must 
not jude men by ourselves. I do not mean to defend 
Will. I do not mean that when a man has passed his 
word, there is any possible temptation which can ex- 
cuse his breaking it. There is not. But you should 
remember, dearest, that you did nothing to help him in 
his strait. It was you who made it difficult for him to 
keep his word." 

“ I did not know — I never guessed " 

“ I know. Poor child, you were too young. It was 
not your fault ; but, dear, you should have mercy. He 
pays for it more dearly than you," 

“ He? He does not suffer! " 

“ Has he not, Susan, from the withdrawal of your 
love ? " 

“ Ah, but I cannot help that." 


298 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Might not he plead he could not help ? We can 

always help, Susan.” 

'' Besides, that is the just, the natural consequence. 
He does not deserve that I should feel the same towards 
him.” 

Perhaps not ; but, after all, why did you marry him ? 
Was it only because he deserved it?” 

I thought he was good, and so I loved him.” 

And do you really not love him now? You vowed, 
Susan, to take him for better or for worse; to love 
him, comfort him, cherish him. Did you mean to do so 
only so long as he satisfied your demands — did you take 
a conditional vow? And now, when you find he has 
far greater need of you than you knew of, when you find 
that he has a will that needs strengthening and weakness 
that you could support, will you cast him from you 
remorselessly? After all, dear, what has he done to you? 
You were prepared to be his wife some time or other. 
Will you retract your marriage oath because you are 
called on before you expected ? ” 

It is not that,” said Susan. It was his brutal 
callousness — as if my feelings did not matter — as if he 
enjoyed humbling me.” 

Again, dear, you must forgive a man his nature. 
That is not your husband's real character; you don’t 
find him careless of your feelings in daily life. His 
fault is lack of self-control; when carried away by his 
passions he falls far below what he should be ; but, love, 
you should not judge him by his fall. No man loves 
and honors his wife more, or is more regardful of her 
feelings, than he does when he is in his right mind, 
Susan.” 

“ But it shows such weakness. I cannot help despis- 
ing him.” 

‘‘ Dear, you may be sure of one thing — he loves you 
with all his strength. It is not many wives who can 


YOUTH AND EXPERIENCE 


299 


boast of such an attachment. His is a most loving 
nature ; a sensitive, finely-strung, sincere, and honest 
nature; open to every good impulse, easily swayed, but 
far more by good than by bad, Susan. You have proved 
his weakness ; you have not proved his strength. His 
soul lies in your hands. What will you do with it ? 

Susan groaned. ‘‘ I wanted a master ; a husband who 
would guide and rule and strengthen me. I wanted to 
put my soul into his hands.’’ 

Dear Susan, few of us are permitted to do that. 
We all have to learn to rule our souls alone; to be a 
strength to ourselves.” 

‘‘ But you want me to take charge of my husband’s 
soul; to find strength for him.” 

To help him, to stand by him, love ; he must find 
strength for himself. But suppose you were the stronger 
and could find strength for him^ Susan; would you re- 
fuse? You have promised to love him; would it be 
loving, would it be generous, to leave him to fight his 
battles alone?” 

But it seems that is what he leaves me to do.’’ 

Perhaps it does in this battle, dear ; but there are 
so many battles, and most have to be fought alone. 
But trust him, and you will find his strength supporting 
you in many a battle, even where you look for it least.” 

‘‘Shall I? Even after this?” 

“Yes, my love, assuredly. You must not think that 
he is worthless because you have once found him weak.” 

“ But it is so hard,” said Susan. “ I believed in him 
so deeply! Now I have found he is not what I thought 
him, he does not seem the man I loved. He is merely — 
merely a mortal like myself. He may have good quali- 
ties, but how can I love him ? One does not love a 
patchwork of good qualities and weaknesses; one wants 
to adore, to worship 1 ” 

“ Ah, dear Susan, there is no one without weaknesses 


300 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

and human imperfections. If you had married the 
greatest hero that ever lived, you would have found him 
in time to be merely a mortal like yourself. It is only 
by keeping at a distance that we can believe any one to 
be without human weakness. You make the mistake 
so many young girls do! You must not expect to wor- 
ship a faultless being in a husband; you must content 
yourself with loving a patchwork of good qualities. And 
surely^ dear, your patchwork is a very lovable one ! '' 

“ I am too weak myself,’’ said Susan. “ You cannot 
understand; it has been so different with you. You do 
not know what it is to have to despise your husband.” 

“O Susan! You don’t know what you are saying. 
You will never, never in all your life suffer as I have 
suffered. You will have no cause to despise your hus- 
band.” The agony in her voice pierced Susan’s heart. 

Oh, forgive me, dearest ! I forgot ! I forgot ! ” 

‘‘You think, Susan, that weakness is the only thing to 
be despised in a man? You think that because my hus- 
band is strong^ that you may envy me? Child, child, 
how little you know ! ” 

“ But, dearest aunt — ^mother, rather — tell me, if it does 
not give you too much pain — you never felt as I do 
now? You never felt as if you must cut yourself adrift 
— cast off your husband even if it tore your heart in 
two ? ” 

“ I believe I did, Susan, once. It is so long ago that 
I have nearly forgotten it. But there was a time when 
I felt just as you do now; when I vowed to myself I 
must cut myself adrift, even though I died of the 
parting.” 

“ Tell me^ mother dearest.” 

“ I had been married about five or six months. It 
was when I first confessed to myself what manner of 
man my husband was. Susan, you have been dis- 
appointed in your husband ; yon have found him not what 


YOUTH AND EXPERIENCE 


301 


you dreamt. You have no conception what my feelings 
were. I had not woven fanciful dreams around him; 
I was older than you are ; I was nearly f our-and-twenty ; 
life was a reality to me. And, instead of the man I 
believed in, I found my husband sordid and scheming, 
indifferent to religion, regardless of honor, insensible to 
ideals ; aiming only at money and position and low, mer- 
cenary objects. He cared nothing for all that was 
dearest to me. All that he cared for I despised. I 
did not know then, I did not guess, at his treasonable 
intrigues; perhaps he had not then begun them; but I 
saw enough to make it no surprise to me, whatever 
depth of baseness the future might reveal.'' Her voice 
sank till it was almost inaudible. Dear, you think your 
husband weak. I had to acknowledge mine to be a bad, 
an unprincipled man. I felt my life had become im- 
possible. I told myself, as you do now, that all my 
love was dead. I felt myself degraded by sharing the 
life of such a man. And I debated long with myself 
whether it were not my duty to leave him." 

‘‘You did not leave him, aunt? What determined 
you to stay ? " 

“No, I never left him, dear; thank God. That was 
before he brought you home to me. And it was just 
then, when I was debating whether I ought not to leave 
him, that God sent a new tie to keep me in my place. 
I had the hope then, for a few short months, of bearing 
a child." 

“ Aunt ! you never did — you never had a child ? " 

“ No, my love. The hope did not last long. I was 
very ill; it was the first of my illnesses. I was ill for 
months, and he nursed me more tenderly than any 
woman. I lay helpless on his hands like an infant, and 
he nursed me back to life. When I recovered I saw 
my duty clear; I recognized that it was indeed the hand 
of God that had joined us together." 


302 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

And were you always happy after that ? 

“ Happy ? How could I be happy, dearest ? I loved 
him; I loved him better and better every year, every 
day that passed; it only increased my suffering on ac- 
count of his want of principle. One happiness I had, 
and one alone, to pray for the opening of his eyes.’' 

And I — was I not a happiness to you ? ” 

Yes, my Susan; I must not forget you. You were a 
deep delight to me; but chiefly, I fear — oh me, I fear 
because I thought his adoption of you showed some soft- 
ening of his heart — I believed it to be one act at least 
of real disinterested benevolence. Oh me, if I had 
known the truth ! ” 

‘‘ How could you have lived, aunt ? To suffer so 
much, and to live without happiness — and without hope 


But not without love. Child, as one grows older 
one ceases to demand happiness insistently as one does 
in youth. I remember when I thought I could not live 
without happiness. But one hardly asks for it in middle 
age. I learnt how to live, and how to love, and was 
content.” 

‘'How, aunt? Teach me.” 

“ The secret is simple, my child : unwearied love, and 
patience, and prayer. Those three, unending stores of 
those three, will bear one up through any misery in 
marriage.” 

“ But, aunt, how is it possible to love one whom you 
cannot admire — cannot even respect? Isn’t there some- 
thing degrading about such a love ? ” 

“ I think not, dearest, if one holds to one’s standard 
through all, and lets one’s tenderness and desire to think 
well of the object of one’s love never for an instant to 
blind one to right and wrong. Is it not thus that we ap- 
proach most nearly to the Divine Love? No; there is 
nothing degrading in love of the sinner while we do not 


YOUTH AND EXPERIENCE 


303 


excuse the sin. Love is hard on these conditions; but 
all things are possible to prayer. Unending charity, 
Susan, inexhaustible love and tenderness — ^they are the 
whole secret of life. For in love we live and move and 
have our being.'’ 

'' But, aunt, that is not love of — that is not the love 
men and women feel for each other when they marry.” 

No, dear; but it is the love that married love should 
grow into if it is to bear its full result. All love is one, 
Susan; and the passion of lovers is the root of the love 
that flowers in Christ.” 

'' Aunt, I shall never be as good as you are.” 

'' I am not good, Susan. If I have learnt any wis- 
dom, it has been through suffering. And, my love, if 
you have to suffer, you will also learn — I pray that you 
may learn the wisdom and the charity that suffering 
brings.” 

• O aunt ! How hard life is ! ” groaned Susan. How 
can you ? How shall I ever attain to your good- 

ness ? ” 

Dearest, the way of love is not hard. You will not 
find it hard. It is not as if your husband, any more 
than mine, were an unlovable character. You have only 
to throw aside your false ideals. I do not know how it 
would have been with me if rny husband had not had 
qualities which compelled my love. It is no merit in me 
to have loved him: no one could have helped it. For 
if he has no principles, surely he has every other virtue a 
man can possess. I have spoken hard things of him, 
Susan; it is my sorrow that if I am true to my standards 
I must be false to my love. But though I may call him 
base and unprincipled and mercenary — as God knows, 
indeed, he has been — I can also call him with a clear and 
joyful conscience the bravest, most generous, most mag- 
nanimous of men. Shall I tell you, love, of all his good- 
ness to me; of the goodness that may not be spoken 


304 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

of, so rare and sacred a thing it is? Will it not atone, 
O God, will it not atone, that if he has been false to his 
king and his country, he was true, sublimely true, to his 
wife? 

I told you, my love, how long an illness followed 
the loss of the child that was never born to us. Other 
illnesses followed; in the succeeding years I lost my 
health completely. At last the physician told me that 
another pragnancy would cost me my life; that if I were 
to live I must cease to be a wife. I was willing to sacri- 
fice my life for him; what meaning had it to me apart 
from my duty to him? And what better fate — what 
sweeter and lovelier death could there be, than to die 
for his sake and by our love? 

‘‘ But ’twas impossible, for I was thinking of myself 
alone ; I forgot what his part in such a course would be. 
Being the man he is, he would not suffer it. What did 
he say to me? He said with a look I shall never for- 
get — a look that would make me a Heaven in the midst 
of Hell — and O God, if he is not saved, will make a 
Hell for me in Heaven : ' What do you suppose I love 
you for, Polly? Do you fancy it can make the slightest 
difference ? ’ And since then — for five long years, Su- 
san — he has loved me not less, but more.’’ 

Susan could not speak. 

‘‘ And it has not been easy for him, Susan.^ I, who 
would so gladly have suffered for him, have had to stand 
by and know myself the cause of suffering — only his 
love will not admit there is any suffering in what he bears 
for my sake. O my God, my God, how often have I 
prayed to die for him, if so his heart might be softened ! 
And now it is not my agony but his own that is de- 
manded: he must pay himself, himself, with his own 

^ Dear Mrs. Friend ! You ought to acknowledge it was only 
by intuition that you divined it was hard. You know that neither 
by word nor sign did your husband ever betray it. 


YOUTH AND EXPERIENCE 305 

death, not mine. It is just, it is just; but how am I 
to bear it; unless in the knowledge that Thou wilt open 
his eyes at the last, that Thou takest his life in exchange 
for his soul? O Susan, Susan, pray with me; we will 
yield up his life without a murmur if by so doing we 
may save his soul.’’ 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


IN THE MORNING 

Early the next morning, a little before eight o’clock. 
Will North knocked at the door. Susan was sleeping 
profoundly; Mrs. Friend was up and dressed. She 
went down to meet him and led him into the dining- 
parlor. He looked haggard and miserable beyond words ; 
he had been pacing the streets all night. 

‘‘ My poor Will, what you have suffered ! ” exclaimed 
Mrs. Friend. 

“ Don’t speak of me ; it is not my sufferings that 
matter. I deserve them all, all, and far more than all,” 
said Will desperately. ” Mrs. Friend, you can never 
forgive me.” 

‘‘ Be sure I can, dear boy. Don’t accuse yourself, 
Will; you have nothing to blame yourself for.” 

‘‘ No, when I have destroyed your husband — when I 
have betrayed my friend who trusted me ? ” 

He did not trust you. Will ; he reposed no confidence 
in you. Sit down, my dear, and let us talk calmly. You 
and Susan are so carried away by admiration for his 
courage and sorrow for his fate that you are forgetting 
what he really is. He was not a man to put confidence 
in any one. He used you for his own purposes as long 
as he chose, and it was a mere accident that enlightened 
you. There was no betrayal. You must not reproach 
yourself.” 

It remains that he, the bravest, the most generous 
306 


IN THE MORNING 307 

of men, is to die a shameful and horrible death, and that 
I, who brought it on him, live.” 

‘‘ But, Will, think what would have happened if you 
had tried to screen him. His death may cause us agony 
who love him; but what is that to our agony if he had 
been successful? Now we have hopes that he may yet 
be saved; his death may be — I trust, I believe it will 
be — the means of awakening his soul. What grace or 
pardon could we look for if his treason had been carried 
through to its end?” 

''You think only of his soul, Mrs. Friend. I, who 
saw him ” 

" Don’t fear that his bodily courage or strength will 
fail him. Will. If you saw him, I know you did not 
see him cast down or dismayed. No one will. His 
strength will suffice him.” 

" And it is such a man that I have destroyed ! ” 

" Don’t think too highly of his courage, Will. It 
cannot cleanse his soul. Pray for him — pray for him 
while there is yet time.” 

" I — pray for him?” Will dropped his head into his 
hands. 

" Mrs. Friend,” he began presently, suddenly lifting 
it, " what does Susan say of me? You have seen her? ” 

"Yes; she is upstairs, sleeping. It was very late 
before she went to sleep.” 

"And what does she say of me, Mrs. Friend?” 

" She has had a severe shock, Will. She is very 
young; and she has suffered much.” 

" Not what I have. How can she? She has nothing 
to reproach herself with. Will she ever forgive me, 
do you think ? ” 

" I believe she will ; but you must be patient with her, 
Will. She is very young ; it is barely three months since 
she was a child.” 

" Oh, I have been a brute to her ! I do not deserve 


308 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

ever to be forgiven. Will she cast me oflf, do you 
think?’’ 

think not. But you must give her time, Will ; you 
must be very gentle with her. You are too young your- 
self to be a husband. ’Tis a relation that needs infinite 
patience, infinite forbearance.” 

If she will have patience with me — if she will give 
me another trial . Why do you speak of my for- 

bearance with her, Mrs. Friend? It is I who have 
sinned against her; she is stainless.” 

Beware, dear Will, of idealizing her. She is human 
like yourself. Her failings are not yours; it may be 
you fall before the grosser temptations which she does 
not feel ; but she has her own difficulties which you will 
discover by-and-by, and maybe have less patience with, 
than the faults you can understand more readily. You 
may find her hard in judgment upon you; slow to under- 
stand and to forgive. But she is so young. Forgive- 
ness and comprehension come with years.” 

‘‘ She cannot be harder on me than I am on myself. 
I see myself too base to live. Oh, why cannot I take 
his place, and end my wretched life by redeeming his? 
Then I might hope to be forgiven.” 

‘‘ No, no. Will. You forget. He must pay for his 
own crimes; well do I believe he will redeem his soul 
in paying. It is best as it is. I say so, who suffer most. 
But you, dear son, you must live your life. You have 
something to redeem; you must do it by honest, con- 
tinued effort. Do not lose courage; do not lose hope; 
time will be your friend. You will regain Susan; you 
will make yourself worthy of her love. But, Will, you 
must give your whole heart to the effort.” 

“ I will, I will. If I have the hope of regaining her, 
I can do anything. O, Mrs. Friend, I will try.” 

‘‘ God bless you, dear Will, and give you strength. 
Now I will go and fetch Susan.” 


IN THE MORNING 


309 

She went upstairs. Susan was awake, and was dress- 
ing. Mrs. Friend told her who was below. 

“ O aunt ! I cannot see him.'^ 

He wants you, Susan.'' 

“ So soon ! I do not know what to say to him." 

'' Hear what he says to you." 

'' I know what he will say. He will be very sorry, 
very penitent; and then he will go and offend again." 

Have patience with him, Susan. He will never want 
to offend ; he will never find happiness or peace in erring. 
You can help him to be what he wants." 

O aunt ! O aunt ! I am too young and weak to 
have this thrust upon me." Susan sat down in a chaiif 
and began to cry. 

'' You love him, dear. And he loves you — how dearly ! 
God have given you to each other to help and strengthen 
each other. Trust your love, dearest; you will find it 
guides you. And even where you least look for it, you 
will find him able to guide and strengthen you." 

Shall I, aunt?" 

‘'Yes indeed, my love. Do not think scornfully of 
him. You have a fine man, a fine nature, in your hus- 
band." 

Susan allowed herself to be led downstairs. Mrs. 
Friend opened the door of the dining-parlor and took 
her in. “ Here she is. Will," she said. Then she left 
them to themselves. 

Susan stole a glance at her husband and was struck 
with compassion at the misery of his face. His eyes 
were fixed on her with the humble entreaty of a dog. 
“ Susan — Susan ! " he murmured. “ Can you ever for- 
give me ? " 

Her heart melted. She saw only the man she had 
loved, suffering and in need of her. She held out her 
arms to him without a word. He rushed to her, and 
sank on her breast in a passion of tears. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


THE NATURAL MAN 

John Friend was led back to prison at the conclusion 
of his trial, and immediately demanded a fried steak 
and onions for his supper. 

‘‘ Well,’’ said the turnkey, you’re a cool customer, 
Mr. Friend, I must say. I’ve seen a many gents come 
out from sentence, and there was plenty as was game 
enough and didn’t let on to care a damn; but you’re 
the first as ever I heard call for a fried steak and onions 
within ten minutes of being cast to hang by the neck 
till you was dead.” 

‘‘But not till I am dead; there’s just the difference, 
don’t you see?” chuckled Friend. “There’s a further 
treat reserved for me after the hanging. No wonder I 
am in good spirits. Hurry up that steak and onions.” 

“ Now, don’t you bother your head about the dis- 
emboweling, Mr. Friend. They never carries that out 
nowadays. If they cut off your head it’ll be as much as 
they’ll do, and not till you’ve hung for a good half-an- 
hour, by which time there’s not as much breath left in 
a man’s body as’ll wag his little finger. You’ll be as 
dead as mutton afore you’re taken down for the heading 
and quartering.” 

“ A most reassuring prospect,” said Friend. “ Where’s 
my supper? I assure you a man’s in want of a good 
supper after eleven hours in the dock. I wish old 
Mountstephen as good an appetite as mine.” 

“You’ll have a litte taste o’ something comfortable 
310 


THE NATURAL MAN 31 1 

to keep your heart up, Mr. Friend? YouVe got the 
night afore you; and though you show a fine spirit 
now^ there’s not many can sleep the night through after 
being found guilty. You’ll be glad of a drop o’ Dutch 
courage before the morning.” 

“ Not I, Manning. English courage is enough for 
me. 

‘‘ Pity you worn’t a true-spirited Englishman all 
through. Can’t think what a fine game fellow like you 
wants to go over to them d — d nasty frog-eating French- 
ies for. If it hadn’t been for that, you might ha’ been 
walking free at your ease at this minute.” 

‘‘We never know what’s waiting to befall us, do we. 
Manning? Now you’ve never had anything to do with 
nasty frog-eating Frenchies, I’ll be found; yet I wouldn’t 
be so much surprised if some little accident some day 
should land you here where I stand, beneath the gallows. 
You look out, my boy. These little incidents are not so 
easily avoided.” 

“ Now, you’re joking, Mr. Friend. But won’t you 
take a little glass of spirits if I fetch it?” 

“ No, thanks. Manning. Fetch it for yourself at my 
expense, if you like. If you could get me a glass of 
clean cold water, I should enjoy it; but that’s a thing 
I presume Newgate can’t supply.” 

“Water!* Ah, you love your joke, you do, Mr. 
Friend. Blast me if ever I heard of a man drinking 
water before.” 

“Well, Manning, every man to his taste. You can 
fetch me a pint of ale, if you’ll be so kind.” 

As the turnkey left on the errand, his fellow lounged 
in, a surly man with an irascible temper and abusive 
tongue, in whose presence he found it wise to hold his 
peace. The steak soon arrived, but his appetite dis- 
appeared at the sight of it. It is true that the cookery 
was revolting. He ate a few mouthfuls and then pushed 


312 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

the dish away. His brain was spinning with ideas of 
possible chances for him yet; but he felt too tired to 
decide if they were practical or the merest illusions. 
The two jailers wrangled beside him. Their language 
was filthy. The sullen one was in a vile temper. 

Well, gentlemen, I will bid you good night,’’ said 
Friend. ‘‘ Pray continue your very interesting con- 
versation without reference to me. I am going to sleep. 
I hope I shan’t disturb you.” 

The surly jailer damned him for a bloody treacherous 
mounser; the other one wished him good night with 
civility, and a fresh wrangle arose over this difference 
in manners. Friend tried to close his ears to them, but 
in vain. Whether it was their disturbance, or that he 
was affected in spite of himself by his position, he could 
not sleep. Long after all was silent in the cell he re- 
mained awake. 

In the morning he received a visit from his attorney, 
Mr. Edwards. That gentleman wore a most lugubrious 
face, partly as appropriate to the occasion, and partly 
as the genuine expression of his feelings. For all who 
came in contact with Friend found themselves liking him, 
however strong their prepossessions against him had 
been. Friend laughed at him. ‘‘ Oh, I’m not dead yet, 
Mr. Edwards. Time enough to pull so long a face 
when the breath’s out of my body.” 

“ I fear the case is almost as desperate, Mr. Friend.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know about that. There are plenty of 
schemes I can try yet. I want to talk some of them 
over with you, Mr. Edwards. There’s of course the 
petition game; that’s rather a forlorn hope, and yet 1 
don’t know if I couldn’t work it so as to stand me a 
chance. But that’s not a matter in which you can help 
me. What I’m chiefly thinking of now is this business 
of Lord Mountstephen’s. Can’t we memorialize the 
king or Prince of Wales or some influential personage, 


THE NATURAL MAN 


313 


setting forth that he is the private enemy referred to 
by my counsel at the trial, and making out that his sen- 
tence was just the outcome of private malice?’ 

‘‘You mean to petition for another trial?” 

“ Oh no, no ; heaven forbid ! Of course, another trial 
would have the same result. No; can’t we get the 
sentence set aside on the grounds of his avowed enmity 
tome?” 

“ Fm afraid there’s not a chance of it, Mr. Friend. 
Of course, if you’d brought up the matter before the 
trial ” 

“ What good would that have been, my dear sir? My 
conviction was a matter of pure certainty^ whoever tried 
me once those unluckly papers had come to light. No ; 
what I wanted was to be tried by old Mountstephen, and 
then to take advantage of his known grudge against me. 
Young North acknowledged in the most handsome man- 
ner that he’d heard him threaten my life. Surely that 
gives me a handle.” 

“ But, Mr. Friend, how much of the story are you 
willing to publish? If once you challenge Lord Mount- 
stephen, the facts are bound to come out ; and you surely 
don’t wish that the whole history of your relations with 
him should become known.” 

“ Oh, it will be quite easy to give the facts the nec- 
essary twist. There’s nothing against me in writing, 
you know— unless he has kept my letters, which is out 
of the question. There was no forgery; it fortunately 
wasn’t necessary. Oh, trust me for making myself out 
an innocent victim ! I wish I saw nothing more difficult 
than that.” 

“Well, Mr. Friend, seriously I must say that I’m 
afraid you have no chance. Of course, if your object 
is to revenge yourself on Lord Mountstephen, you can 
do it. There is no doubt you have it in your power 
to raise a very ugly scandal ; but that it would benefit 


314 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

yourself in any way Tm afraid I must absolutely deny.” 

‘‘ Are you sure of that, Mr. Edwards, speaking as a 
lawyer? He’s a noted Tory, you know. Working all 
the popular feeling against him (that was a good touch 
of Mortimer’s about my being poor and friendless, 
wasn’t it?) appealing to the masses, and protesting 
against the privilege and tyranny of the upper classes, 
you know, and so on. Of course, we’ll sink the French 
business as far as possible. After all, old Boney has 
his admirers. Come now, Mr. Edwards — don’t you think 
it would be worth trying?” 

‘‘You can try it, of course, Mr. Friend. Anything 
you like that can keep up your spirits. But — — ” 

“ Oh, if it’s only to keep up my spirits I shan’t trouble 
myself. I can keep up my spirits^ thank goodness, 
without any trickery. Well, I must think of something 
else. There are plenty of other ways. Oh, I’m not cast 
down, Mr. Edwards. Never say John Friend is done for 
till you’ve seen him dead.” 

“You are a man of marvelous resource, Mr. Friend; 

but in this case I fear However, I would not say 

a word to depress you. By the way, to turn to another 
subject^ I should like to inquire if you will permit me, 
why you stopped your counsel when he was on the point 
of getting at those very damaging facts about the past 
life of the prosecution’s principal witness.” 

“ He’s a good lad ; I didn’t want him tormented. It 
does seem folly on my part, but it made no difference in 
the end. Nothing could have effected the result.” 

“ I suppose not ; and yet all the way through it was 
your policy to avail yourself of every chance, whether 
there was a hope or not.” 

“ True ; it was my policy, and I ought to have stuck to 
it. I confess I am a fool in regard to that young man. 
If I hadn’t been, I shouldn’t be here now. I had him 
under my knee — only to fire a pistol or drive a knife 


THE NATURAL MAN 


315 


home, and I should have been safe. What idiotic weak- 
ness possessed me I can’t think. But I have a vein of 
softness about me somewhere; I’m not always to be 
trusted. The Emperor — old Boney, you know — warned 
me of it long ago. ‘ Take care you always keep your 
private feelings apart from business, my friend,’ he said 
to me, ‘ or you’ll come to grief one fine day.’ Well, that 
day has arrived. I neglected his advice, and this you 
see is the result. Oh, he has an eye for men, has the 
Emperor Boney. Here I am, ruined by my d — d nature.” 

‘‘ At least it is a satisfaction to you to know that you 
have not young North’s death upon your conscience.” 

‘‘ Conscience ! I don’t know the article, my dear sir. 
And as for young North^ I know no reason why his life 
should be dearer to me than my own. Of course a man’s 
life is his first concern; and I think him an idiot who 
throws his away for a scruple. Oh, I’ve no patience 
with my folly. But it doesn’t bear thinking of. I ought 
to know better at my age than to think of what’s done 
and can’t be mended. There’s nothing stifles and chokes 
me so much as to sit and think. I’d sooner hang; upon 
my word I would. So with your leave we’ll change the 
subject. Fortunately there’s still a future to look to.” 

‘‘ A short one. I’m afraid.” 

“ Well, much may be done in a short space.” 

‘‘ Mr. Friend, I would not depress your spirits; and if 
there were any legitimate grounds for hope I should be 
the last man to dash them from you; but I cannot help 
assuring you that you are deceiving yourself if you think 
that any human power or ingenuity can save your life 
now. I am vastly grieved for you ; I lament your fate 
from my heart; but I can only advise you to make up 
your mind to undergo the worst.” 

“ Thank you, Mr. Edwards ; I think I’m equal to it, 
whatever comes. But you don’t know me if you think I 
can sit down and fold my hands and cry out that all’s 


3i6 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

up with me, just because the law has done its worst. I 
shall not give up hope while a breath remains in my body. 
I don’t believe I have a chance ; I did not believe I had a 
chance before the trial; but none the less I shall fight 
to the last. What, man! A man is not to give up his 
life without a struggle ! ” 

‘‘ Not while a hope remains. But when the case is 
desperate, then it becomes a man best to submit.” 

‘‘ Well, Mr. Edwards, I’ve been in some straits worthy 
to be called desperate before, and yet I have always 
found I’ve escaped in the end, and even turned them 
sometimes to my advantage. To throw up your hands 
and cry out that the case is desperate is always the worst 
policy. There never yet was a case so bad that I couldn’t 
make the best of it.” 

But when it comes to the gallows, Mr. Friend? ” 

“ When it comes to the gallows, Mr. Edwards, you see 
if I can’t make the best of that too! Yes; there’s some- 
thing left, when hope is gone.” 

There is a hope, Mr. Friend ” said the attorney 

in a hurried, shamefaced manner; but there are others 
who will speak to you of that better than I can; these 
things are not in my line at all. But I can’t see a man 
like you going to perdition without a word; you know 
where to turn — if you’ll forgive me for referring to it.” 

“ Thanks, Mr. Edwards ; but that sort of thing isn’t 
in my line either. Did you ever hear greater hypocrisy 
in your life than old Mountstephen recommending me to 
repentance and humility? He was a happy man over 
that sentence. How he gloated over the details ! ” 

I can’t defend his manner; but if you could turn 
your thoughts into other channels, Mr. Friend, it would 
be better for you.” 

‘‘ Oh, I’ve nothing to lose now. The satisfaction of 
thinking of it is all I’m likely to get. Hypocritical old 
villain! I don’t mean to say it would have made any 


THE NATURAL MAN 


317 


difference whoever sat on the bench ; but this I say, that 
if ever a man on this earth thirsted for another’s blood 
and worked his hardest for his death, Lord Mountstephen 
at my trial was that man. Ah, it would be a distinct 
satisfaction to me to wring his neck with my own 
hands ! ” 

“ I am sorry this should be your frame of mind ” 

Come, Mr. Edwards, don’t pretend to be shocked. 
You know perfectly well he did his utmost to murder me, 
and it wouldn’t be natural if I didn’t feel it. There’s an 
old score between us. However, it is useless to pursue 
the subject. I am here, and he is there; and upon my 
word I wouldn’t change places with him. You mark my 
words Mr. Edwards ; he’ll come to see me hanged.” 

‘‘ It would be a most unbecoming thing to a man in his 
position ; the idea’s impossible ; he could never do it.” 

‘‘ He will ; you may depend upon it. He’ll never be 
happy till he’s seen the last of me. Well, ’tis the fortune 
of war! I’d twist his neck if I had got the chance. 
Heaven only knows which of us two is the greater rogue. 
And it’s something to know I have still the power to 
do him an ill turn.” 

‘‘ If you decide on exercising your power, Mr. Friend, 
rely on my services to do all I can for you. I have dis- 
charged my conscience in telling you frankly I believe 
it will do you no service; but if you think it worth while 
to try^ I conceive it my duty still to aid you to the utmost 
of my power, by every constitutional means.” 

Thank you, thank you heartily, Mr. Edwards. But 
I don’t know. You see, the old rascal is my Susan’s 
grandfather, and she’s closely associated with him now. 
I don’t want to do anything that would cause her pain. 
Of course, if I saw a chance of getting off myself^ I’d 
do it; but merely for the sake of making myself dis- 
agreeable to him — I don’t fancy it’s worth it. Well, I’ll 
consider it. Something depends on what other ideas 


3i8 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

occur to me. But thanks all the same, Mr. Edwards. 
You’ve had an arduous job in my defense, and have 
carried it through nobly. No one ever had more active 
or loyal defenders. I can’t tell you how I feel all your 
kindness. And it does you all the more credit, you must 
permit me to say, because, as I’m fully aware, I don’t 
carry your political sympathies with me. I’m more 
grateful than I can express.” He wrung the attorney’s 
hand. 


CHAPTER XXX 


THE wife's victory 

Friend was exceedingly anxious to see his wife; and 
her relations had spared no pains to obtain permission 
for her to visit him. He was guarded with great rigor, 
both on account of the gravity of his offense and his 
character for resource and courage; but the influence of 
Dr. Bentley procured leave for Mrs. Friend to be ad- 
mitted. The ill-tempered turnkey brought her in. 
Friend looked anxiously to see if he had treated her to 
any foul language or rudeness; but he seemed to be 
behaving with unwonted civility. She threw herself on 
her husband's breast. He was kept ironed and in hand- 
cuffs, and could not catch her in his arms. Ah, Polly, 
Polly ! It is good to see you again ! " 

ril wait outside," said the turnkey. By rights I 
hadn't ought to let you out o' my sight; it’s the orders 
as one o’ us has always to be here ; but you’d as lief be 
by yourselves^ I dare say; and you'll be all right if I 
keep my eye on the door." 

He's uncommonly considerate," said Friend as the 
door closed behind him. Ah, Polly, the sight of you 
makes this place feel like home. Let me see your face, 
sweet. My poor little woman, how you have suffered ! " 

‘‘ Everyone has been very good to me. But you ; have 
you suffered? You are not in the least changed." 

“ You've had enough for the two of us. I’m afraid, 
dearest. My poor little love ! Were you very anxious ? " 

319 


320 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

Anxious ? What a question ! But I forget every- 
thing now I am with you again/' 

And are Dr. and Mrs. Bentley good to you ? ' 

‘‘ They are like angels, dearest. Nothing could be 
kinder." 

Bless them for it ! I owe them gratitude for that. 
My poor little Polly; it hurts me to see how I’ve made 
you suflfer. But cheer up, dearest; I’m not past hope 
yet. I’ve still a plan or two in my head that may save 
us yet, if you’ll help me.’’ 

“ I help you ? ’’ 

‘‘ Yes, love; it’ll be a comfort to you to be doing some- 
thing, won’t it? It’s the sitting still and waiting that 
tries one. Well, it’s not much of a chance; but we must 
try everything. I want you to get an audience of the 
king and beg for my life, doing the despairing widow 
business, you know — dishevelled hair and tears and all 
the rest of it. A petition’s no good; there’s not a soul 
who would sign a petition for me; but you all by your- 
self, Polly, would be more irresistible than a score of 
petitions. Just your very solitariness would tell.’’ 

She raised her head abruptly from his shoulder with a 
movement of uncontrollable repulsion, but remained 
silent. ‘‘ Dear,’’ she said gently at last, ‘‘ is it because I 
lied for you that you think I am capable of this?’’ 

He misunderstood her. Why, Polly, you’d do it 
capitally. You’d look so taking, no one could resist you. 
You’ve only to let yourself go; there’s hardly any acting 
even about it. Oh, yes, you’re capable of it ! ’’ 

That I am not,’’ she said, rising from his knee. 
“ Carried away by my fears for you, in the terror of the 
moment I was false to my principles ; I did lie ; but this 
is a different thing. What do you take me for that you 
should propose such baseness to me?’’ 

“ What, Polly? You won’t? Not to save your poor 
old husband’s neck?" 


THE WIFE’S VICTORY 


321 


It must not be saved — in such a way. What are you 
made of that you can dream of such a thing? What! 
after you have spent your life in defying and betraying 
your king, to creep to him in the end whining for par- 
don? You knew when you first begun your treason that 
the penalty was death; why do you shrink from pay- 
ing? You know that yeu deserve it. Take the fate you 
have earned like a man.’’ 

‘‘ Of course I shall take it like a man if there’s no 
avoiding it; but you don’t expect I shall let myself be 
hanged if I can help it? A man is bound to make a fight 
for his life, Polly.” 

‘'To fight for his life — yes; but how shall he fight 
against justice? And the plan you propose is not fight- 
ing. You do not even mean to carry it out yourself.” 

“ No; I couldn’t, somehow, even if there were a chance 
of success, which there wouldn’t be. I don’t know why, 
but some absurd feeling would prevent me. But you — 
you’d have a chance; and if it gets me off, what does it 
matter how it’s done? And why on earth shouldn’t a 
wife beg for her husband’s life?” 

“ What, when I know you ? when I know how little 
you care, how little you repent? With what face do you 
think I could ask for your pardon? On what grounds 
should I plead ? Do you want me to urge my wretched- 
ness, my broken heart? That was broken long ago, 
husband, when I first found out the truth about you. 
What makes my misery is not that you should suffer, 
but that you should be guilty. It would be your last, 
your greatest shame if you should make of your wife’s 
wretchedness a screen behind which you sneak from 
justice.” 

“ But I say, Polly^^ it’s death that’s in the case. It’s 
all very well to talk about shame and justice; but it’s 
my last chance. If you want me to reform I must 
manage to keep alive ; and by God this is the only way.” 


322 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

^‘You must not keep alive, husband. You have got 
to die. It is the only honest thing, the only manly thing. 
You must hang.’" 

He stared at her in amazement, half-incredulous of 
his ears and eyes. 

Is it you that says this to me, Polly ? ” he asked. 

Is it my little wife who tells me to hang? Are you 
tired of me, then ? ’’ 

‘‘ Tired of you ! she exclaimed. It is because I 
love you — because even here where you stand the guilti- 
est wretch in the three kingdoms^ I would be proud of you 
still! Can’t you see? Can’t you understand? I do 
want you to be hanged, because I want you to be worthy 
of my love; because I want a man and not a cur for 
my husband.” 

He stood transfixed, staring at her; admiration gain- 
ing on his astonishment. She seemed to glow, to float 
before his eyes, to be transfigured into something super- 
human. He gazed till the contagion of her spirit caught 
him and whirled him off his feet. He bent before her, 
sweeping her a bow. 

'' Madam, your most obedient humble servant,” he 
said in a low voice that thrilled a little. Yours to 
command till death.” He stooped over her hand and 
raised it to his lips. For life or death ; whichever you 
shall choose for me, Polly.” 

She smiled proudly. '' It is death, then, dear. Death 
for both of us. We’ll have no more of dishonor.” 

He stood holding her hand at arm’s length, devouring 
her with his eyes, lost in wonder as if in a new world. 
'' Polly ! Polly 1 ” he murmured now and then below his 
breath. She drew closer to him. Dearest,” she said. 

I knew I could trust you.” 

She led him to the bench and they sat down again. 
She lifted his handcuffed wrists and drew his arm over 
her head so that it lay on her shoulders. 


THE WIFE’S VICTORY 


323 


Polly/' he said presently. '' Tell me, little woman, 
what you really think of me. Am I truly such a hopeless 
rascal ? " 

She pressed closer to him in silence for a minute. 

‘‘Well, Polly?" 

“ It is not that you chose to serve France instead of 
England. I don't blame you for that. It is not that you 
sold information and made use of people for your own 
ends, and passed yourself oif for other than you were. 
It may be justifiable to do such things, for great and 
good aims. I cannot tell, though I should not like to do 
them. But, that you lived a life of lies; that you sought 
to deceive, not for any worthy object but for your own 
personal advantage ; that you put your own sordid gains 
above honesty and truth; — this, dearest, makes you a 
traitor not only to England but to the whole of humanity." 
She purposely avoided what she felt to be her strongest 
argument, the religious one, because she felt he could not 
respond to it. 

“ I don't think I understand you^ dear." 

“ What is it you don't understand ? " 

“ Well, why might it be justifiable to pass myself off 
for other than I was, and yet I’m a traitor to humanity 
because I did it? And what do you mean by a traitor 
to humanity ? " 

“ Why, I suppose it is not always incumbent on every 
man to appear exactly as he is. It is certainly better if 
he does; yet need a man be held guilty for having re- 
serves or concealments? But I am running into casuis- 
try; and if I say that we ought not to blame^ I do not 
mean we ought to imitate. You did much more than 
this, dearest. And when I call you a traitor to humanity, 
I mean that not only have you betrayed your nation, 
but that you have been false to the first obligation of 
every living man, to tell the truth and to deceive no one. 
For the whole of human intercourse is founded on the 


324 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

trust we put in each other’s words and deeds; and he 
who robs us of that trust, he who teaches us to doubt 
and to disbelieve — he is weakening the bonds which join 
man to man ; he is loosening the whole fabric of our 
brotherhood; he is a traitor to the hopes of mankind 
for all the future.” 

He sighed. ‘‘You’re too deep for me, Polly. I’ve 
never thought about human intercourse and all that. 
However, I suppose a man ought to tell the truth and 
live fair and square and above-board. I can see that 
much.” 

He remained silent, and she said no more. 

“ Dearest,” she began presently, “ Will North and 
Susan are in great sorrow on account of you. He blames 
himself bitterly for your fate*” 

“ Why, they ought to rejoice at it/’ said Friend. 
“ Has Susan softened to me ? I could see poor Will had 
a bad time of it at the trial; it was certainly a stiff 
ordeal for him; but the little lady is made of stronger 
stuff.” 

“ She has forgotten everything except her Daddy 
Friend. She was sadly uphappy because you did not 
recognize her at the trial.” 

“How could I before all her new friends? I was 
delighted to see the child looking so handsome and 
elegant in her fine new clothes; she’ll be one of the 
beauties of the day if all goes well. We must take care 
not to compromise them, Polly.” 

“ But they care nothing for their grand acquaintances, 
love. Susan escaped from them after the trial, and 
came home to me distracted with grief.” 

“ But look here, love, we must not let them injure 
themselves by showing sympathy with me. It won’t do 
at all. I’m the most detested criminal in the kingdom ; 
it would ruin anyone’s reputation to stand up for me 
publicly. We’ve succeeded in getting them into a com- 


THE WIFE’S VICTORY 


325 

fortable and respectable position; they musn’t throw it 
away now for an absurd romantic sentiment/’ 

Don’t call it an absurd romantic sentiment, love. 
Poor Will is overwhelmed with grief and self-reproach.” 

''What does the lad reproach himself for? He has 
no reason to love me. I fooled him all along : he should 
look on me as his enemy.” 

" He does not, dear. He has forgotten everything but 
your goodness to him. For you have been a friend to 
him, you must admit.” 

" A queer kind of friend. I twist him round my little 
finger and make him my tool, and now he supposes he 
has got to be grateful ! Can’t he see that his profit lies 
in hating me ? ” 

" He would scorn to make profit by his enmity, dear^ 
even if he felt hate towards you. But he feels nothing 
but love. Was it nothing to him that you would not 
permit him to be tortured at the trial ? ” 

" He’s a fine, generous-hearted lad ; but I wish he were 
not so romantic.” 

" Dearest, he is full of remorse and grief. Send him 
a comforting message; send him your forgiveness.” 

" Forgiveness is all rubbish between him and me. If 
anyone needs forgiveness it is not he but I. But you 
can tell him from me that he was perfectly right in 
denouncing me. In fact, there was nothing else to be 
done; he’d have put his own neck into the noose if he 
had not. I don’t bear him any grudge. It’s my own 
doing that I am here, not his.” 

"Yes, dearest. And have you no more to say? You 
don’t know how sore and crushed his heart is. Tell 
him you forgive him ; it will cheer him more than any- 
thing else.” 

"Foolish fellow, what does he want cheering for? 
He fought for his own hand as a man ought to do. 
Well, perhaps that won’t seem much consolation to him; 


326 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

after all, his position is not quite pleasant. Heaven 
knows it’s not for me to forgive him, but if the poor 
dear fellow will feel the happier for it, tell him I forgive 
him with all my heart and soul. But he must do the 
same by me. Will you tell him that^ Polly? Don’t let 
the children fret, Polly. They ought to forget about 
me; I can’t bear to think that I shall be a shadow on 
their lives.” 

Dearest, your memory will burn like a light in their 
souls. The world may say of you what it likes ; but we 
three know you, and to us the thought of you will bring 
strength and comfort to the end of our days.” 

Don’t talk like that, Polly ! ” he said in discomfort. 
'"You know it’s absurd. I’m just an ordinary rascal, 
with rather more brains than most, perhaps; which I 
suppose only makes my case worse, because it has ena- 
bled me to carry my mischief to a height beyond the 
rest.” 

" Have you not then, dearest, a spark of love for your 
cause — of loyalty to your master? Surely you really 
feel an admiration towards the French Emperor — ^you 
have wished to be a true servant to him ? ” 

" I’ve only been true so far, Polly, that hitherto it has 
been to my interest to keep in with him. Yes; one can’t 
help admiring the fellow ; he has a head on his shoulders. 
After all, he’s the only man in Europe it’s any satisfaction 
to work for. All the others — Pitt included — are such 
hopeless fools! But there’s something mean and nasty 
about him at the same time. He sets one’s teeth on 
edge, somehow — leaves a bad taste in one’s mouth, like 
the savor of brass.” 

" And you would have betrayed him too? ” 

" Yes, the minute I saw my profit in it. We’re all 
like that in politics, Polly.” 

" No, no, no, dear ! You must not think that.” 

" Well, anyhow there are plenty to keep me in counten- 


THE WIFE’S VICTORY 


327 

ance, Polly, though most of them do manage to avoid the 
gallows.” 

‘‘ But, dearest, if you had your life to live over again, 
would you do just the same? ” 

‘‘ How can I tell, dear ? I suppose I should. I took 
what seemed to me the best course, and I suppose it 
would seem the best again. I know one thing: Fd man- 
age better; I'd not be caught a second time.” 

And is that all you are sorry for, that you have been 
caught ? ” 

“What's the use of being sorry? It can't change 
what's past. It seems to me, dearest, to be a sort of 
weakness, the minute you have failed to turn round and 
lament what you have done. A man shouldn't turn his 
back on his own actions.” 

“ You are right, my love. So you must die for yours.” 

“ Well, dearest, if you think it's right I should die. 
I'm willing. There’s no fear I'm afraid, Polly.” 

“ I know, my dearest. There is no weakness of that 
kind about you.” 

“ It wasn't that I feared being hanged, you know, 
Polly. Of course, no one wants to be hanged; but if 
it comes to that, I can stand it as well as any man. 
Only it went against me to feel that I was giving up 
before I need — that I was not making the best fight I 
could. I shouldn't like old Mountstephen and the rest 
to think they had quelled me.” 

“ Never mind them, my love.” 

“ Well, I must put them out of my head. But you 
know, Polly, it would be a pleasure to me to have it out 
with old Mountstephen. From the minute he took his 
seat on the Bench one could see he was thirsting for 
my blood.” 

“ Dearest, he has reason for thinking ill of you. And 
if he let his personal feeling stand between him and 
justice, show yourself his superior by putting off all 


328 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

ill-will to him yourself. You can rise above petty ill- 
feeling and resentment.'' 

What an angel you are, Polly! If I'm anything but 
the lowest of rascals, it's your doing. Well, the old man 
is safe from me now. Let him sleep in peace; you've 
saved him. You shall do with me exactly what you 
like. I'm in your hands now." 

She seized her opportunity. “ Ah^ dearest, if I have 
any influence with you, if I am anything to you, you 
know what I would ask? If I could only see you turn 
to the Light before you die, and asking pardon for your 
sins " 

He was silent for a while. I'm afraid I'm not made 
for repentance, Polly," he answered slowly. ‘‘ I'd do 
anything to please you, dearest ; but a man can't feel in 
any way but the one that's natural to him. I’m willing to 
pay for what I've done; I’ll own that it’s just I should 
sufifer ; but that’s all ; I can't go any further than that.'’ 

But, dearest, you have sinned against God. Your 
whole future in Eternity depends upon your repent- 
ance." 

‘‘ Can't we leave my future in Eternity till it arrives, 
dear? You know, frankly speaking, all this doesn't 
seem real to me. I've no doubt the next world exists^ 
and all that; but this one has always been enough for 
me, and I have never troubled my head about the other. 
And to begin now to try and get up some concern about 
my soul doesn't really strike me as a nice sort of thing 
to do. I've taken my course and I must pay for it; to 
try to cry off at the last minute seems to me simply mean- 
ness." 

‘‘ You don’t understand, my love," she said in deep 
pain. It's not to cry off from your punishment. I 
don't want you to do that; I want you to see that you 
have sinned." 

‘‘ Well, dear, I don’t dispute it. I don't look on these 


THE WIFE’S VICTORY 


329 

things with your eyes^ but I never set up to defend my 
conduct.” 

Then can you not, dearest — can you not confess it to 
God and implore pardon? Think, my love. Our whole 
future together depends on it.” 

‘‘ Polly, dearest, I would do anything for you. But 
how can I do this? I must say that the idea of God 
doesn’t seem real to me. It’s all words without any 
meaning. I’ve never taken the slightest interest in these 
things, and they really don’t seem to belong to me or 
touch me in the least.” 

But you do not disbelieve, dear, surely ? ” 

‘'No, I suppose not. I’m sure at least that you know 
all about it. Of course, you know what’s true; but 
then believing it’s true is so different from feeling it 
real. Perhaps in the next world things will be different, 
dear, and I shall see it then as you do. I suppose if 
God wants me to change He can make me; but I can’t 
change myself.” 

“ It will be too late — too late,” she said. She tried to 
set her faith before him convincingly, tried to awaken 
him to a sense of its reality, but in vain. She found 
herself only provoking criticisms of her creed, shrewd 
remarks of earthly common-sense whose unintentional 
blasphemy filled her with horror. She could only im- 
plore him to be silent, and take refuge herself in fervent 
prayers that his eyes might be opened. His own fate 
had no more power than hers to move him. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


THE BIRTH OF A SOUL 

After his wif^ had left, Manning, the civillier of the 
two turnkeys, was on duty, and left Friend to his own 
reflections on perceiving him disinclined to talk; but in 
the evening Jackson, the surly one, returned. His lan- 
guage was revolting and spiteful beyond endurance. All 
that he could do and say to insult and torment he did. 
The other man tried to restrain him. Then he began 
jeering at him for his ill-humor. Amusing fellow he 
is, ain’t he, Mr. Friend? A sweet temper he’s in to- 
night. I know what’s the matter with him. It’s all 
along of a blasted kid of his that he’s making this fuss ; 
the brat’s been lying sick of a gaol fever this se’nnight ; 
expect he’s just gone of? the twig. Ain’t that so, Jack? 
Has your blooming bastard kicked the bucket ? ” 

‘‘ Shut you d — d mouth ! ’ shouted the other. 

‘‘ Would you believe it, Mr. Friend, that a man could 
make such a fuss about a blasted bastard ? ” 

Bastard let him be, he’s my own flesh and blood, and 
that’s more than you can say of any of your wife’s brats,” 
roared Jackson. He proceeded to stigmatize the lady 
referred to in language that will not bear reproduction. 
Friend had to interfere to prevent a fight. Manning 
finally took himself off. Friend inquired of Jackson if 
the story were true, and how the child was doing. 
When he found Friend was not mocking him his surliness 
dropped from him, and he poured out his trouble with 
330 


THE BIRTH OF A SOUL 


331 


an abandon which showed the depth of his suffering. 

Only five year old, sir, and the brightest little chap ! 
He's the image of me, and can knock down any kid of 
his own age. And there he lies, all his curls cut off, and 
he don't know us, and hasn't said a word o' sense these 
three days, and he's worse every time I goes to look 
at him." 

‘‘Who's looking after him?" asked Friend. 

“ His mother, sir. She's a good mother to him, what- 
ever she may be. What'll happen to her if the boy goes 
I can't think." 

“ And have you any advice for him, any physician in 
attendance ? " 

“We've had the apothecary to look at him; but bless 
you, sir, they won't put their foot into the place a second 
time. 'Tisn't a place to ask a gen'leman into." 

“Where is it?" 

“ A room in Little Green Street, sir, just behind the 
Old Bailey, looking over the debtors' yard." 

“ Now look here," said Friend. “ You must get him 
away from there. Get a clean airy lodging for him; 
lose no time about it ; and call in a good physician to see 
him. I'll give you the address of Dr. Thompson, who 
has attended my family; he's a kind-hearted man who'll 
do his utmost for the child, and won't bother the mother 
for her marriage certificate. I think I know a woman 
who could let you a room. Mrs. Haines, 16 Crown 
Street, Clerkenwell. You go to her and mention my 
name to her, and I think for old friendship's sake she'll 
let you have a room. She'll look after you well if she 
does." 

“ But look here, sir ; we're poor folks, and this'll 
cost " 

“ Never you mind about that. I'll see to all that. 
You go and get the room, and get the boy out of Little 
Green Street. A few guineas more or less is nothing to 


332 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

me; I shall have no further use for money after next 
week.’" 

God Almighty bless you, sir! ^ said Jackson, the tears 
in his eyes. '' If my kid recovers ’’ 

Keep up your heart, man. Children pick up again 
in a marvelous manner. But look here, friend; if Mrs. 
Haines takes you in, you must mind your manners. 
She won't like any foul language in her house. 
And you'd better say nothing about the missing 
wedding lines, d'you see? Call her your wife for the 
time." 

Bless you, sir, she's been as good as my wedded 
wife these last five years. Ever since the boy was born 
we've been as much married as if we was joined by the 
Archbishop of Canterbury himself in St. Paul's Cathe- 
dral." 

Well, if that's so, why don't you get the parson to 
join you now? I'm sure you'd find it would please her 
to be made an honest woman of. And then you'd have 
something to say when the other fellows call her 
names." 

‘‘ I never thought on it, sir ; I've never held much with 
marriage myself. But I'm sure we're as good as mar- 
ried if it comes to that; and whatever she was when I 
took her, she's been a good woman to me^ and a better 
mother to the little chap you couldn't find if you was 
to search till Christmas." 

''You think of what I say. You'll never repent it. 
I'll be bound. And lose no time to-morrow in getting 
him out of Little Green Street." 

" God A'mighty bless you, sir. I'll think o' what you 

say. I'm sure, if there's anything I can do for you 

I'm sorry I behaved to you as I did, sir; I was near oil 
my head with fretting about the little chap." 

" That's all right, Jackson. You let me know how he 
goes on." 


THE BIRTH OF A SOUL 


333 


The interest he took in the jailer's family proved a 
great resource to him ; for having abandoned the idea of 
further struggles for life he began to feel his position. 
Every day he asked after the boy. They succeeded in 
obtaining Mrs. Haines' room and brought Dr. Thomp- 
son to visit him there. Under the influence of fresh air 
and cleanliness he began to recover. It was touching 
to see the gratitude of the jailer who had been so sav- 
agely brutal. He could not do enough to express his 
devotion. Friend again urged him to marry, and event- 
ually got him to consent. What with this return to re- 
spectability and the discipine of restraining his tongue 
so as not to offend the good woman who was lodging 
them, it seemed likely that Jackson would become a re- 
formed character. 

Now that action was at an end Friend could no longer 
keep at bay the enemy he had repulsed during his whole 
life, reflection ; but he found, rather to his surprise, that 
it had lost most of its venom. He perceived that his 
dread of thought had been in reality a dread of his own 
conscience, just as the care with which he had kept his 
doings secret from his wife showed his fear of her 
judgment. Looking back over his life in the light of 
her standpoint, he saw it clearly, and without shrinking 
pronounced it a mistake. But he was not going to bewail 
or repent. It's no use whining over the past ; my 
business is to make the best I can of what is left," said 
Friend to himself. He set himself to go through all 
that remained so as to do credit to his wife's teaching. 
He determined that no one should see in him a sign of 
gloom or depression; that he would keep up his spirits 
as well as his courage, and not only betray no weakness 
but fill the days with all the kind deeds and words that 
opportunity allowed. It was not easy in the gloom 
and closeness and foul odors of his cell in Newgate, 
vilely fed, and his wrists galled by the handcuffs into 


334 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

open sores. But if the task taxed his strength, no one 
could suspect the struggle, for it was successful. 

The ordinary of Newgate, who visited him with well- 
meant but entirely conventional attempts to bring him to 
repentance^ could make nothing of him. He acknowl- 
edged that he was glad his attempt had failed ; he showed 
satisfaction on learning that the French fleet had never 
succeeded in entering the Channel, and that Napoleon, 
abandoning the idea of immediate invasion, had left 
Boulogne; but as for any personal penitence, he re- 
pudiated it utterly. Finally he requested the ordinary 
to cease his visits. ‘‘You mean excellently^ my dear 
sir; but your efforts are quite thrown away upon me. 
I^m not the stuff for you. Leave me to face my own 
fate.’' And then, “ I must confess, sir, I have an in- 
vincible objection to strangers meddling with my most 
private concerns. I beg pardon for speaking so plainly ; 
I know it’s your profession to meddle; but that’s the 
state of my feeling. If there’s anything to be done for 
me I must do it myself.” He felt a deep resentment 
that these intruders should venture on his wife’s 
ground. 

The ordinary took leave of him with sighs and shakings 
of the head. “ Hard as a rock and fearless as the devil 
himself,” was his description; “without doubt a lost 
soul.” Dr. Bentley, influenced by Mrs. Friend, had not 
pressed his offices upon him. 

The governor of Newgate himself came to tell him of 
the arrival of the death-warrant. Friend took it without 
the slightest alteration in his composure. “ His Majesty 
is graciously pleased to remit all the concluding part of 
your sentence,” said the governor. “ You will be hanged 
in the usual fashion, and your body sent to Surgeons’ 
Hall to be anatomized.” 

“ Ah, thanks; I am much obliged to his Majesty,” said 
Friend. “ The twentieth ! That’s strange.” 


THE BIRTH OF A SOUL 


335 

^"What, the date? I am afraid no alteration can be 
made now/’ 

I don’t wish for any alteration. Then twentieth is 
as good a date as any other; in fact, there’s a sort of 
appropriateness about it, perhaps.” He did not explain 
himself; the twentieth of September was in fact the 
anniversary of his wedding-day. 

He was not allowed to see his wife again till the nine- 
teenth. He was kept heavily ironed and constantly 
guarded ; but when the last day came and her visit was 
announced, he was permitted to see her in private and 
his handcuffs were taken off. The last was an in- 
dulgence granted by Jackson on his own responsibility; 
but every one who came in contact with him was eager 
to do their utmost for his comfort. 

She flew into his arms. They embraced speechlessly. 
The minutes passed unheeded. Friend was the first to 
speak. 

Well, Polly, it is meat and drink to me to see you. 
I have hungered for your dear face day and night. 
Why, my little woman, your hair has turned gray ! ” 

‘‘ Has it, dear? You have not changed. There is not 
a line on your face; you are absolutely the same, your 
own beloved self, thank God!” 

‘‘ But, dearest, what have you been doing? Have you 
been fretting about me? You look quite an old woman. 
What have you been doing to yourself?” 

‘"Only praying to God day and night for your beloved 
soul,” she answered. ‘‘ Dearest, you don’t expect that I 
can go through this and not feel it?” 

‘‘No, dear, you must feel it, I suppose; but I don’t 
want you to fret about it.” 

“ To fret about it ! It’s not quite that dear. I am 
dying of it.” 

“ No, no, Polly,” he said hurriedly. “ Don’t say that! 
I can’t have your death to answer for.” 


336 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

No, dear you have not. It is not your doing. But 
I was never strong you know, my love; and how could 
you think I could live without you? What else do you 
think I meant when I bid you die ? ’’ 

'' Polly ! Polly ! ’’ he groaned. 

'' Look here, my dearest,” he said in a moment, trying 
to recover himself. You must cheer up. It’s not so 
bad a case as it might be, eh? We both know that it’s 
perfectly fair and just that I should die, don’t we? And 
I am not fretting about it in the least. I assure you 
that I am perfectly reconciled to it. You are not 
troubling yourself about my sufferings? For you know 
I don’t care in the slightest what they do to me. I’m a 
tough customer — hard as nails: I really can say of myself 
I’m indifferent to physical pain. Whatever it’s like, I 
can bear it easily. So don’t trouble yourself about that, 
dearest love.” 

‘‘ I know your courage, dear ; I know your strength. 
It is not that.” 

Well, dearest, when we are both agreed that it is 
what ought to happen you can bear up, can’t you? 
Think of me, love; think of what I must feel if I’ve 
got to think I’ve killed you. Spare me that, Polly ! ” 
His voice shook. 

‘'You have not killed me, dearest; don’t think that. 
It is not ours to give and take life. But don’t you see 
how much better it is that we should die together? 
What should I do without you, even supposing I lost you 
in some ordinary way? And now, what sort of life do 
you imagine could be mine? God is good, dearest, to 
release me so that I can still be with you.” 

“ Polly did you notice the day ? The twentieth ; it 
is our wedding-day.” 

“Yes, dearest; it is a sign to me that we may be 
permitted to die together. To-morrow I hope will unite 
us more firmly than that day fourteen years ago.” 


THE BIRTH OF A SOUL 


337 


Fourteen years, Polly, since we were married ? ’’ 

'' Fourteen years here^ dearest. And Eternity there. 
Promise me it shall be so, husband.” 

Polly, what am I to say to you ? I would give my 
soul for you; but I can’t do this.” 

" What, dearest? What is your difficulty? ” 

'‘To pray — when it’s not real to me — -when I don’t 
believe — or at least I suppose I believe^ but when it 
means nothing to me. How can I, dearest? It would 
be a mockery.” 

" God will make it real to you, husband. I leave you 
to Him. He will grant your soul to my prayers.” 

" Well, dearest, if ever the moment comes when I 
can, I will do as you bid me. Tell me what I am to say.” 
She told him. She had no more fears for him; she felt 
certain of victory. Glowing with faith and hope she 
poured out her beliefs to him. He listened with a 
deepening sense of the distance between them, of the 
impossibility of obtaining her standpoint. Elevated and 
fervent as her religion was, her creed had a childlike 
crudity about it which repelled him. She felt his 
want of sympathy through his silence, and presently 
stopped. 

" Thank you, dearest,” he said. " Well^ we must leave 
it there. You have my promise that if ever I find it 
possible, I will pray to be forgiven.” 

Tell me, dearest,” she said presenly, " you have for- 
given all your enemies ? You have forgiven Lord Mount- 
stephen ? ” 

“ I believe I’d forgotten all about him, Polly. He’s 
not worth thinking of, is he? But it’s not for me to 
blame him. He might have been a better man if I had 
not put temptation in his way. Leave him alone to settle 
his own account. I wish the old man no evil. Dear 
Susan; I hope he’ll be good to her. Give her my love, 
Polly, my dearest love. Will too. I hope they’ll be 


338 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

happy together. Dear children ; I wonder what they will 
make of this puzzling affair called life ? ’’ 

One more question, love. Would you still say you 
would do the same if you had to live your life over 
again ? ’’ 

If I could meet you at the beginning of it, it would 
be very different, Polly. I didn’t know you till I was 
over thirty, and had taken my course. I started wrong. 
I was brought up to think myself defrauded by the 
world, and that all I could do against it was fair. No; 
if I could have another chance Pd try for something 
very different. Perhaps I shall be allowed it over there.’' 

Darkness had stolen upon them. The warders had 
gone their evening rounds. They had left Friend un- 
disturbed till the last; and the two turnkeys had been 
waiting for half an hour, unwilling to cut short his last 
meeting with his wife. At last Manning knocked at the 
door. 

“ Is it time — is it time ? ” she asked, trembling. 

‘‘ Polly, Polly ; how am I to part with you ? ” 

She threw herself into his arms, and they remained 
locked in an interminable embrace. At every thought of 
parting she clung the tighter to him; she could not tear 
herself away. Waves of anguish, immeasurable, un- 
speakable, rooled over him; a flood in which all that he 
knew of himself was lost: all but the instinctive grasp 
at self-control. Her utmost sufferings were light in 
comparison with what he endured, now that the depths 
were reached. 

As for her, she could feel no grief while his arms were 
yet around her: she was rapt in a transport that made 
sorrow all one with joy. 

At last he put her from him. You must go, dear,” 
he said very gently. She obeyed him. They kissed in 
silence; silently she withdrew to the door, their eyes 
fixed on each other to the last. He smiled at her as she 


THE BIRTH OF A SOUL 


339 


felt for the doorway, with a look she had never seen on 
his face — a look that she treasured for the rest of her 
days as a revelation; a smile of infinite strength, infinite 
tenderness — infinitely sad. 

The door interposed between them. With the loss of 
his glance her senses forsook her, and she fell fainting 
to the ground. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


THE END 

Friend was led back to the condemned cell, briefly 
refusing a last offer of Dr. Forde's, the ordinary, to sit 
with him, and requesting the turnkeys to leave him to 
himself. He stood motionless in the cell, battling with 
his anguish. Light had come at last. He saw, as he 
had never seen before, even when most fully yielding 
to the influence of his wife’s spirit, the sacredness of 
life. He recognized the divinity of the moral claim 
to which he had been so blind. At the onrush of 
realization, he threw up his head and squared his shoul- 
ders and set his teeth. But little by little his head 
drooped, his shoulders relaxed. At last he dragged him- 
self to the bench and sat down. 

It was a sultry night. The weather had shown no 
sign of cooling though the summer was far advanced. 
Day after day burned overhead, and there was little 
relief when darkness came. On this night the sky was 
overcast and very dark; there was thunder in the atmo- 
sphere. It was difficult to breathe in Newgate; the air 
stagnated. Hour after hour struck. 

He lived over again the past scenes; most of all, the 
last interview with his wife. He longed passionately to 
send her the comfort she craved, to let her know that 
her desire was accomplished; but the whole weight of 
his nature was against it. The thought of prayer was 
immensely, unspeakably repugnant to him. 

340 


THE END 


341 


The thought of his future, though he was quite willing 
to accept her belief that his fate to eternity depended on 
a formal expression of submission, did not disturb him 
in the least ; it was too unreal to him. He was incapable 
of forming any idea of a future life, entirely destitute of 
imagination as he was. He was content to suppose that 
justice would be done, and that if justice demanded 
eternal punishment for his lot, his part was to acquiesce 
with cheerfulness. But that his wife should be suffer- 
ing more than the pangs of Hell in the thought of his 
damnation was an agony he could not endure. And his 
mind argued that he had no reason for his resistance, 
since he owned the existence of a God against whom he 
had sinned. It was not pride that stood in his way; he 
fully admitted the magnitude of his offense. Yet to 
approach the presence of a God he did not know with 
the mockery of a prayer that his heart was incapable of 
feeling, was an impossibility. 

He recalled his wife's sketch of her faith only to feel 
with greater force the impossibility of its ever becoming 
his own. The Saviour she depicted was a feminine 
creation ; her creed was full of tender feminine absurdi- 
ties and intellectual inconsistencies. The conventional 
views of the orthodox preachers inspired him with noth- 
ing but aversion. If time had been given him, he might 
under the new stress of late-awakened faculties have 
evolved a religion for himself ; but such a thing was not 
possible to be accomplished in a few short hours, bur- 
dened as his mind was with the recognition of his 
wasted life. 

The night grew late. Closer and heavier grew the 
foul air. A deep snoring vibrated through the stillness ; 
and the moans of a restless sleeper in the next cell, 
doomed to the same passage that awaited him in a few 
more hours. Still the struggle continued. 

The storm burst. Thunder crashed overhead land 


342 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

rolled reverberating against the thick walls. The light- 
ning blazed on the squalid cell, which the darkness 
instantly snatched back to itself. The rain roared down. 
A sense of freshness penetrated even there. He breathed 
more freely. The tension seemed to give way; his 
stubborn will relaxed. After all, it's the right thing,” 
he said. I ought to do it.” 

Standing, his head bowed, his hands tightly clasped, 
he uttered the words : God forgive me my sins, for 
Christ's sake. Amen.” 

He felt it to be perfunctory, but it gave him deep 
relief. He had done his duty. Now his wife would 
rest in peace. 

He stretched himself on the bench. The thunder 
crashed and rolled unheeded; the rain fell fast and 
heavy, bringing a welcome coolness to the air. In a few 
minutes he was fast asleep. 

He slept soundly till he was awakened by the turnkey 
at half-past six. The last night's agony had left him; 
he was again cheerful and calm. He had need of 
strength, for a hoarse and hostile murmur already surged 
round the prison like a sea, and now and then yells of 
rage, or his name shouted in tones of frenzy, reached 
his ears. He did not mind. He made a good breakfast ; 
chatted with the jailers, and inquired particularly after 
Jackson's wife and child. The under-turnkey was almost 
in tears. ‘‘ God bless you, Mr. Friend, sir. God ha’ 
mercy on you, sir. I shall never forget you and all 
as you have done for me and mine. An' if my missus 
ever has another child, we'll call him after you, sir.” 

"‘You had better not,” said Friend, smiling. ‘'You 
might as well call him Old Nick at once. Mine will be 
the worst hated name in England for many a year to 
come; ay, and as long as it is remembered. Keep it 
for your own recollections if you will, my friend; but 
don't breathe the name of John Friend aloud/* 


THE END 


343 


Dr. Bentley arrived. Mrs. Friend had implored him 
to be there to bring her an account of her husband's last 
moments; and though he felt he could do little good 
he could not deny her. It was as he thought. Friend's 
refusal was gentler than it had been, but he would not 
accept the offer of any religious ministrations. '' My 
dear sir, no one can help me here ; what is to be done I 
must do myself," he said. ‘‘You don't believe that any 
one's intervention can really be of avail ? " 

“ Ah, as to that " said Dr. Bentley. 

“ Tell my wife I have done what I could. I have done 
as she asked me; she may be happy about me. Tell her 
so. Dr. Bentley; it will comfort her. 

“I will give her your message. I hope — I trust it 
signifies that your heart has been touched, that you are 
no longer turning away from the offered mercy. If you 
can tell me so, what a load it will take from our hearts ! " 

“ Don't let your hearts be weighed down on my behalf. 
Dr. Bentley. I am quite satisfied that whatever my 
fate may be, it will be the only right and fitting one. 
Can you not trust me to Justice?" 

Dr. Bentley pressed his hand. 

“ I can't tell you. Dr. Bentley, what I feel towards 
you and Mrs. Bentley for your goodness to my wife. I 
owe you more than I can expiress. And if I could, I 
believe I should do best to hold my tongue ; I'm only too 
well aware that the thanks of a man like me can only be 
a disgrace to you. I wish — but it's no use wishing. I 
can't say anything; words are no good: only I must 
try — I must let you know. . . . With my last breath I 
shall be blessing you ! " Dr. Bentley wrung his hand 
fervently. 

The sheriff tapped at the door. It was a quarter to 
eight. He was led out to the press-yard to have his irons 
knocked off. He shook his wrists with a sigh of relief 
and a smile as the handcuffs fell from them. The 


344 the infamous JOHN FRIEND 

attendants and many of the prisoners crowded round him 
to take leave of him; the governor himself shook hands 
with him. He bade farewell to each by name. ‘‘ Good- 
by, Manning; thanks, friend^ for all your kindness to 
me. Good-by, Jackson. My best wishes for that boy 
of yours; bring him up to be something better than an 
Old Bailey gallows-bird. God bless you, friend.’’ He 
shook his hand with a warm and hearty grip. Jackson 
burst out blubbering, and bolted to hide his tears. 

The executioner advanced to tie his arms. His elbows 
were fastened together behind his back and his wrists 
bound with cord. His face throughout was cheerful and 
serene. 

The roar of the crowd without increased as the hour 
approached; it sounded like wild beasts ravenous for 
their prey. As the procession emerged from the prison 
on the platform outside the debtors’ door where the 
gallows was erected, a yell that seemed to shake the 
roofs went up from the multitude assembled. A shower 
of missiles flew against the prisoner — dead cats, rotten 
cabbages^ addled egss, filth of all kinds. ‘‘ Warm work, 
sir,” observed Friend to the sheriff who was receiving 
his share of the favors. We had better make haste.” 

It was necessary; the crowd made a rush at the 
scaffold, at which it shook in every joint. It was obvious 
they would brook no delay. He was placed below the 
beam, the noose slipped over his head. Dr. Bentley 
hurried to his side for his last words. I’m sorry you 
should come in for all this. Dr. Bentley. It’s too good 
of you. You’ll tell Polly I thought of her to the last, 
won’t you? Tell her I died perfectly happy and con- 
tented; and you’ll not forget to tell her that I have 
done as she wanted? You will take care of her, won’t 
you. Dr. Bentley?” Tears, unknown there before 
forced themselves to his eyes. 

‘‘ God bless you, Friend — God receive you.” 


THE END 


345 


Good-by, Dr. Bentley — good-by.” 

He recovered his cheerfulness with an effort. Now, 
my friend, Em ready for you,” he said to the execu- 
tioner. Don’t let us keep the audience waiting. 
They’re impatient for the performance to begin.” The 
cap was drawn over his face. 

Eight o’clock was striking as the executioner left him 
to do his work. He counted the strokes; how many 
should he hear ? He had not reached the third when the 
plank he stood on quivered; it gave way beneath his 
feet; down he went, to be brought up with a dislocating 
wrench and sense of strangling. Maddened by suffoca- 
tion and the intolerable strain on his neck he tore against 
his bonds, fighting for his life. Suddenly the thought 
struck him that to yield his life was what he was there 
for; that he had promised his wife to die with willing- 
ness. He wrestled now for death, against the powerful 
instincts that bade him struggle^ forcing himself to bear 
what nature found unbearable. A wave of scarlet dark- 
ness blotted out consciousness: as it returned and his 
necessity grew yet more desperate he took a firmer grip 
of self-command, trying in vain to control the convul- 
sions of his limbs; yet not the less did his mind still 
rule, bent on death, on expiation. He felt the eyes 
burst from his head, the swollen tongue like a piece of 
dry leather far beyond its bounds, without a sensation 
of pain, hardly with discomfort ; the plunges of his chest 
against suffocation, the tearing strain on his neck to 
rending point, were all he could attend to — together 
with the fierce resolve to master the rebellion of nature, 
to accept the agony, to force it to serve his purpose of 
atonement. Fool, it is only death; take it like a man; 
take what you have earned like a man,” he bade himself; 
and there was a stern joy in the conflict. Consciousness 
wavered, flickered like the flame of a candle in the wind; 
he came to himself after the fraction of a second with 


346 THE INFAMOUS JOHN FRIEND 

a sense of return from vast interminable distances, ab- 
sence stretching through eternities — and yet with a clear- 
ness and nearness of recollection, a warm familiarity 
of knowledge, a more vivid self-consciousness than he 
had ever experienced in his life. And with the quick 
realization of himself came a perception of exhaustion, 
of finality; he was at the end of his powers; he had no 
longer strength to suffer; the struggle continued, but as 
it were outside himself, apart from his consciousness. 

There’s some poor wretch theme making a great fight 
for his life,” he thought, indistinctly knowing it was 
himself. '‘As for me, I’ve done my part; I’m through 
with it; I can’t feel any more. This is death.” And 
with the thought a great wave of thankfulness and 
triumph lifted him up. " I’ve kept my word ; I’ve won 

the victory; Polly ” and the wave swept him out 

exulting into the darkness before the thought could con- 
clude itself. 

But to the spectators his limbs were still agitated; 
it was nine minutes by the sheriff’s watch before the last 
sign of life had departed. 

He died very hard. They said the rope that bound 
his arms behind him had broken in his struggles. He 
was a man of extraordinary muscular power. 

His wife survived him for seven weeks. 





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